


Renascence

by SheilaPaulson



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-03-14
Updated: 2002-03-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 19:27:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11812650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheilaPaulson/pseuds/SheilaPaulson
Summary: Some time has passed since Gauda Prime. One member of Scorpio's crew is looking for others....





	Renascence

**Author's Note:**

> Note from oracne, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Bang and Blame](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Bang_and_Blame), a Blake’s 7 archive, which has been offline for several years. To keep the works available for readers and scholars, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after June 2017. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Bang and Blame collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/BangAndBlame/profile).

He was neither particularly noticeable, nor memorable, just a bent little man who shuffled when he walked, dragging his left leg. His eyes were dull but wary, and he flinched when people moved quickly or unexpectedly. Only his hands seemed alive, and they were amazingly deft and clever, performing surprising feats of magic and dexterity that sometimes won him a few casually tossed coins from the patrons of the tavern, although in this poor area of Harrios port, there was little enough to spare. Sometimes his deft fingers got him in trouble, for he could filch a fat purse easily without being caught; the owner would only notice its absence when he went to pay his bill and came up empty. Then the proprietor would bustle forward to retrieve the purse and explain that 'my boy Davy, he’s not quite right in the head, not since the war,' and the customer would be mollified with a drink or three on the house. 'Davy' always returned the wallets willingly, his face grave, expecting blows and curses and stoically prepared to accept them. It was rare that a victim would look into his sad, spaniel eyes and continue to hold a grudge.

"Who is he?" a patron asked one night, a big, burly man with a scarred face and a shock of red hair. "And don't try to tell me he's kin of yours, Joshua. Your son, indeed. You never had a son in your entire life."

"No, he's not really kin of mine," Joshua admitted, for Raf Marin was an old friend, although he had not seen him for almost ten years. "He turned up here one night. He don't talk much, but he's no idiot. I'd go so far as to say he's quite bright, under everything. He knows where he is, and what it is, and what goes on in the galaxy, but he don't know who he is, so I called him Davy after my brother who died in the purge twenty-five years ago back on Earth."

"And took him in out of the goodness of your heart? Oh, come, Joshua, I know better than that."

"Why not? Good-hearted, that's me. He'd been shot--in the back. I can't abide back-shooting. You look a man in the eye when you kill him, Raf. You don't shoot him in the back like a skulking, sniveling coward. He had a spinal injury, too, and it'd been left too long untreated; that's why he limps. Surgeons did their best for him, but they couldn't quite rid him of the limp, or bring his memory back, either. They wanted to do the usual memory scans, but he had violent hysterics at the sight of the equipment. Doctors decided it'd do more harm than good for them to continue."

"But where'd he come from? How long have you had him, Josh?"

"I've had him almost seven months. Doctors think maybe it's been close to a year since he was hurt. I found him in the alley out back. He could hardly walk, but he was trying to run away from something. Damn near killed me before he passed out. I like a fighter, and I don't like to see people hurt. The doctors think the Federation interrogators had him; that would explain why he's the way he is."

Raf spat on the floor. "More than likely," he said. "Bloody butchers, the lot of them."

"Quietly, my friend. Even here, that's not always wise. Discretion, if you please."

Raf nodded. "Josh, I'd like to talk to him," he said.

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"Now, you won't upset him? If he gets upset, he has nightmares. I can't remember the number of times I've sat up with him while he babbled things I couldn't quite make out, and held onto me like a lifeline, poor little sod." He seemed to recollect himself, and added coolly, "So don't upset him, Raf."

"I won't upset him," Raf promised. "I know better than that."

But without meaning to, he did. Summoned to the side of his patron, Davy limped over to join him with the ready smile that only Joshua won from him these days. "Anything wrong, Joshua?" It was a habitual question. Davy expected things to be wrong a lot more often than right. Then he saw Raf Marin and something about the big, red-headed man wiped the colour from his face as if it had been sponged away. He seemed to shrink, drawing into himself. A shiver rippled through his body, and Joshua was moved to put a reassuring arm around his shoulders.

"Here now, Davy, what's the matter?"

"I don't know," said Davy helplessly; then he stiffened himself as if preparing to do battle or face a firing squad, and lifted his eyes. Raf thought it one of the bravest things he'd seen in a long time.

"Davy," Joshua said, "this is an old friend of mine from Earth, Raf Marin."

"Hello, Davy," Raf said, his voice gentle and reassuring.

Davy relaxed at the sound of it, and a little of his colour came back. He said hesitantly, lowering his eyes again, "H'lo."

Raf's eyes were studying him intently, but all he said was, "Joshua tells me you're a first rate magician, lad. Will you do me the honour of a demonstration?"

Davy's face brightened like a child's. "I'll show you," he said. A hand slipped out and somehow was producing a silver coin from behind Raf's ear. "See," he said. "And here's another."

"Very good. The hand is quicker than the eye, eh, lad?"

"I'm very good at it," Davy admitted without false modesty. "Look at this." He produced a number of silver balls from his pocket and began to juggle them, two at first, then quickly a third. Raf watched him add a fourth, and a fifth with no trouble, the balls glittering and sparkling in the air, while the crowd murmured appreciatively. Under cover of Davy's distraction, Raf turned to Joshua and said in a voice only loud enough to reach his host and possibly Davy, but no further, "Josh, I hear they've set the date for Kerr Avon's execution."

Joshua started to answer, when, with a clatter and a clash, Davy's silver balls came tumbling out of the air. He stood there, watching them stupidly. The crowd muttered in disappointment, and Joshua abandoned Raf for the moment to comfort Davy, helping him to pick up the balls and stow them back into his capacious pockets. Davy was shaking violently, and Joshua was at a loss as to what had upset him.

"Sorry, folks," he called to his customers. "Show's over. And there'll be a round on the house."

That took everyone's attention away from Davy, except for Raf Marin's, who was studying the slight figure gravely with something akin to pain in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Joshua," he said, "I didn't mean to cause that."

"You didn't," Joshua replied. "It happens sometimes, when something from his past comes through. I don't know what triggers it."

"But you see," Raf said quietly, "I think that I do."

"You mean you know him?" Joshua's hand slid down unobtrusively toward the pocket where he kept his gun.

But Raf shook his head. "No, I've never met him before, nor seen him, either. Don't draw on me, Josh, I'm not your enemy. But I do want to talk to you." He looked at Davy, then away. "Will he be all right?"

"He'll settle down later. Davy, come and have a drink, Davy?"

Davy brightened a little, and said, "Yes, please, a drink, Joshua."

Joshua sat him down at a table and placed a glass before him, then he turned back to Raf. "So you know who he is, do you? You indicated that you're not Federation. I warn you, if I find that you are, you won't live much longer. And that's no idle threat, Raf, it's a promise. I may be out of practice, but I won't let that stop me."

Raf laughed suddenly, throwing back his head and roaring. "Oh, Josh, you know me better than that. Was I ever Federation, any more than you were? I'm not now. In fact, I'm as far away from it as I can get. I came here looking for help--against the Federation. I haven't found it." He heaved a sigh, his boisterous laughter no more than a memory. "Don't you want to get Davy well?"

"Of course I do. I confess I'd miss him if he weren't here, but there's too much under what we see now to let it go to waste. Why? The doctors couldn't help him. He was too frightened of the equipment."

"Equipment that tampers with a man's mind is the last thing to show to someone who's been through Federation interrogation, my friend. Did it ever occur to you that they used similar equipment on him while they were questioning him? No wonder he was frightened of it. No, there's some violent trauma in his background, something that he has to suppress. Equipment might not help if he's not ready to face it yet."

"Maybe he never will be ready," Josh said. "I don't want to hurt him."

"Neither do I, Josh. But maybe someone from his past could help him, an old friend."

"And you just happen to be an old friend?" Joshua asked skeptically, suspicion written on his face.

"No. I've said I've not met him, but I know someone who has. Could I bring him here and see how Davy reacts to him?"

"I don't think I want Davy the subject of that kind of experiment. I've come to like him, and I don't want you casually upsetting him."

"Oh, no, Joshua, I wouldn't casually upset him. I have a very serious and urgent reason for what I want to do."

Joshua thought it over for a minute. He didn't want to frighten Davy, but maybe he owed it to him to try. Davy had a right to his past, although Joshua had thought all along that it was not a past that he would want to remember. "Well, we could try it," he conceded at length.

"You know him better than I do. How do you think he will take it?"

"I'll ask him."

They joined Davy at his table. "Davy," Joshua began carefully, "Raf says he might know someone who could tell us who you are."

Davy stiffened. "But ... you know I can't remember who I am."

"No, I know you can't, Davy. But if you'd like me to help you find out, I'll do it. Would you like to remember?"

"I ... don't know." He shivered a little. "Maybe I don't. I don't think it could have been very safe, being me." He lifted his head then, and looked at Raf. "You know someone who knows me?"

"I think so. He sent me to look for you. He's been looking for a long time, six months. He thought you were dead at first, then we heard you might be alive after all, so we've been looking ever since."

"What's his name?" Davy asked. Raf was surprised. He had not expected Davy to be so calm about it.

"His name?" Raf lowered his voice so that he would not be overhead. "His name's Del Tarrant."

Davy's face didn't change at all. He repeated the name thoughtfully, then shook his head. "No, I don't remember anybody named Del Tarrant," he said, but Joshua, who knew him best, had seen something flash in his eyes.

And then he recognized the name himself. "Raf," he said, "you can't be serious. We all know that Del Tarrant is dead."

"Is he? Would I lie to you, Josh?"

"I don't know if you would or not. It's been a long time. Now you come in here, talking things that could get me in big trouble. You know Tarrant's dead. They're all dead but Avon, all of Blake's people. And you just said Avon will be dead soon."

Davy had begun to shiver again. Joshua looked at him gravely. "We're upsetting Davy," he said.

"Are we?" Raf's eyes were suddenly excited. "Kerr Avon," he said. "That's why he dropped his juggling balls; he heard me mention Avon. Davy, does that name sound familiar to you?"

"No," said Davy too quickly. "Joshua, I want to..." He shook his head. "I don't know who he means. I don't want to. I just want..."

"You see, you've upset him," Joshua said. "Raf, I don't like this. Why should Davy know Avon and Tarrant? He..." His mouth fell open in astonishment, and he looked at Davy as if he had never seen him before.

Raf nodded. "Yes. You see, don't you, Josh? And how else are we ever going to get Avon free before they kill him?"

Davy got up and walked away. He didn't hurry, and he didn't say anything; he just left, his leg dragging as he walked. His shoulders were hunched like an old man's, and Joshua thought he might be crying. He abandoned Raf without hesitation, and followed Davy. Davy's other name was not even for thinking yet. Raf could do what he wanted to do, but Joshua's first concern had to be for Davy.

Raf watched them go and shook his head. Then he got to his feet, and went back to meet Tarrant.

 

#

"It won't work," he said.

Del Tarrant raised his head from a diagram he had been studying. "What do you mean, it won't work, Raf?" he asked. He was thinner than he had been a year ago, before Scorpio had gone to Gauda Prime. The lines on his face would not have seemed out of place on a man ten years older than Tarrant, and the shadows in his eyes had almost become a permanent condition. "It's got to work," he said.

"It won't work if you have to rely on Vila to get Avon free."

Tarrant's face lit up in spite of Raf's caution. "Then it IS Vila? He's alive? You found him?"

"I found someone called Davy. He doesn't know who he is. He jumps at his own shadow; he acts like a child one moment, and a mental defective the next. He didn't react to your name at all, but he went all funny whenever Avon's name was mentioned. I don't know if it was Federation torture that destroyed him, or if it was what happened to the lot of you on Gauda Prime. Does he have any particular reason to hate Avon?"

"Oh, God," Tarrant said, running fingers through his hair. "He doesn't have any reason to care about any of us. None of us ever did anything to help him in the entire time we knew him. Avon tried to kill him, I think. I don't know the details, but it wasn't too long before we went to Gauda Prime. Hate Avon? I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't hate all of us." He shuddered suddenly. "Those of us that are left, that is. And at the rate we're going, there will only be Vila and me soon. Raf, there's got to be a way to get Avon out of there."

"Maybe with the Liberator and a teleport bracelet, and even then I couldn't guarantee it. Tarrant, my contacts don't have the organisation. When Blake died and Avon was captured, what little was left of the rebellion just fell apart. There was nothing left to hold onto. I have a few people I can trust--you've met them--but we don't have access to tools and weapons. We meet secretly and talk. And at this point, that's all we can do. We need Vila Restal. A halfwit called Davy who doesn't even know who he is can't break into that prison and get Avon out. You need the old Vila, and I don't think he exists any more. I don't know if he ever will. Face it, Tarrant. You might not be able to do anything. The Federation is looking for you, too. Your face is well known."

"I got away, didn't I? So did Vila."

"You got away out of sheer luck and timing. Vila--I don't know. I think they broke him, and didn't want him any more. I think they let him escape. They might have planned to kill him along the way, but my old friend Josh found him and took him in. Vila would be dead now if not for Josh. You owe the man a lot. But I don't know that seeing you will make any difference. And even if Vila remembered who he was, he's hardly fit to help you--it'd take longer than Avon's got, to get him back into shape."

"Avon..." Tarrant shook his head. To his astonishment, the Federation had broadcast tapes of Avon's trial. Tarrant had not believed that they would do such a thing, but then he had seen the tapes, and he had understood. Avon simply stood there. He did not speak. He did not react. He only waited, aloof and proud, and looked at nothing. He didn't seem to care what was happening to him, but he was aware. Expressions crossed his face from time to time--sometimes scorn, sometimes mild annoyance, sometimes even a trace of anger. But he did not speak, and he did not react--until they sentenced him to death. And then Kerr Avon smiled.

But Tarrant was determined to free Avon, or die in the attempt. Soolin had died in prison, he had been told. He had been shown a picture of her body. Dayna had died when Arlen shot her. But Vila lived. Tarrant knew that. A guard who was a secret rebel had arranged for Tarrant's escape, once Tarrant had recovered from his injuries. But Vila, he was told, had more serious injuries, and could not be moved yet. By the time he was recovered enough to attempt a rescue, the friendly guard had been transferred, and Tarrant had lost the chance.

And then came the report that Vila had been killed trying to escape. Poor Vila, Tarrant had thought. Probably scarcely able to walk, he had managed to make a break for it--and died in the attempt. He might even be one of the lucky ones, Tarrant thought.

But then one of Raf's men had intercepted a message that indicated that Vila had managed to break away after all. He had stowed away on a ship and gotten right off Earth. Tarrant had determined to follow him, and had spent the past months on Raf's battered freighter, going from planet to planet, tracing the route of the planet-hopper that Vila had supposedly taken. No sign of him, but now Tarrant realised that Raf's friend had hidden Vila so well that there would have been no traces to pick up. Harrios was the planet-hopper's second landfall, and it wasn't until the second trip here that Tarrant had heard the rumour about someone who amazed the patrons of a certain tavern with his sleight of hand, and his remarkable dexterity at picking pockets. It need not have been Vila, but Tarrant could not pass up such a lead. Raf had gone to make the initial survey, and now he was back with both good news and bad.

"Avon only has one week," Tarrant said. "It'll take us half of that to get to Earth. I don't think we have any choice but to get Vila and head for Earth. If Vila snaps out of it, he can help us, and if he doesn't, we'll be no worse off than we were before."

"But Vila might be. He's dependent on Joshua. Take him away from the one bit of security he has left, and you might well push him permanently into insanity--if he's not there already. And there's the chance he's been conditioned, too. You've told me a lot about Vila--and that man looks like Vila, and he's got Vila's skills with his hands, but--aside from that--he isn't Vila at all."

"I want to see him," Tarrant said.

"Joshua won't like that."

"Frankly, Raf, I don't care whether he likes it or not. Vila's a friend of mine, and so is Avon, and I'm not going to sit here and let one of them die and the other waste his life playing court jester in some portside tavern. I'm going over there, and I'm going there now."

"I think you might regret it."

"Raf, you're a friend of mine, but that doesn't give you the right to tell me what to do."

"It gives me the right to offer advice."

Tarrant grinned sourly. "I know, and I appreciate it. But I'm not going to take it. I want to see Vila."

"All right. I'll come with you."

#

Davy was still in the tavern when Tarrant pushed his way into the room. He saw Vila immediately, and froze, staring at him in dismay. Vila had changed, drastically changed. He seemed smaller and more shrunken; there was no bright spark of mischief in his eyes, and even from across the room, Tarrant could tell that Vila was both frightened and unhappy, although nothing menaced him at the moment. A big, comfortable-looking man--Joshua, probably--sat at a table with him, talking to him in what must have been a soothing tone, but Vila did not seem to be paying attention. His eyes flickered nervously about the room, and he kept glancing over his shoulder as if he expected hordes of troopers to pounce upon him without warning. It should have been a familiar reaction, but somehow it wasn't, and Tarrant realised suddenly that Vila had never really been as frightened as he had pretended to be in the old days. None of Vila's blatant and cheerful cowardice lingered in his shuttered eyes, and Tarrant, who had never really been that close to Vila, felt himself suddenly wishing he could go off somewhere and cry.

But that was ridiculous. He stiffened his shoulders and strode across the room.

Vila saw him coming, and his eyes narrowed still further, perplexed. He kept on staring, a frown wrinkling his forehead, and Tarrant realised that, if Vila did not actually recognise him, there was something about Tarrant that stirred his memory. Maybe, just maybe, he could get through to Vila after all.

Joshua did recognise him, though, and his eyes widened with a combination of surprise, excitement and concern for Davy. But when Vila did not react badly, Joshua simply braced himself and waited for Tarrant to join them. He made a gesture at a chair.

Raf, lingering behind Tarrant, went over to the bar where he could watch the room, and Tarrant sat down. He nodded to Joshua, then he turned and said, "Hello, Vila. It's been a long time."

Vila looked at him without expression for so long that Tarrant began to feel afraid again. Then Vila shook himself as if coming out of a trance, and said in a funny little voice that did not sound like his own, "I ... I think I remember you."

"Yes, Vila. I'm Tarrant. It's been a long time, and we've both been through some bad times since then, but you do remember me. I'm your friend."

Something showed briefly in Vila's eyes, and Tarrant realised that it was Vila, not Davy, who was reacting to him. "Friend?" Vila said warily. "That doesn't sound like Tarrant."

"No," Tarrant agreed quickly. "But there are so few of us left. We have to stick together."

"Why?" Vila asked. "What good did it ever do us ... before ...?"

"Davy, are you all right?" Joshua asked.

Vila waved the question away, then suddenly he looked as if he might cry. "Tarrant, where's Cally?"

Tarrant froze. How could he answer that without hurting Vila even more than he had so far? He said, very gently, "Vila, Cally's dead."

Ready tears sprang to Vila's eyes. "Cally... dead ... I ... don't remember her dead. Dayna..." He saw something in Tarrant's eyes. "Dayna, too, Tarrant? Dayna, too?"

Tarrant nodded. "Vila, there are only, you, and me, and Avon."

"Avon... I don't want to see Avon."

"Soon you won't have to," Tarrant said involuntarily.

"That's right. They're going to kill him. I heard..." He stopped then, as if the memories were too close to the surface. "Tarrant, where's the Liberator? Can we go back to the ship now?"

"I've got a different ship now, Vila. My friend Raf owns it, and I'm his pilot. We're going to Earth now. We could use some more crew. Do you think you would like to go with us?"

"Earth..." Vila's voice was vague and confused. He shivered. "Tarrant, I can't remember things."

"You're doing better, Vila. You'll remember more and more."

"I ... don't think I want to."

Joshua had held his peace until now, but at last he said, "Davy, I think it's time to face your past."

"Do you want me to go away?"

"No. But I think maybe you should. You'll always have a place with me here, and you can come back any time. But I think you need to go and find our who you are."

"I..." He hesitated, then he said with unexpected firmness, "I'm Vila Restal. I'm a thief."

"Good. Good for you, Davy. I know it won't be easy for you. I know there are some bad memories. I don't know what they are, but losing friends and shipmates is always hard. I think you should go with Tarrant. He and Raf will look after you for me."

Vila hesitated again. There were large chunks missing from his life. He said, "Tarrant, is Blake dead, too?"

"Yes, Vila."

"And there's only you and me ... and Avon?"

"Yes."

"I..." His face twisted a little. "I used to like Avon," he mumbled. "I never said so, but I used to... Tarrant, I'm scared of him. What did he do to make me scared of him?

Tarrant had dreaded that question, and he did not think Vila was ready for the answer yet. "Vila, that's a long story. I think we'd better wait. I'll try to tell you everything that's happened while we're on our way to Earth. I know you never liked me much, but do you think you can trust me as much as that?"

Vila looked at him seriously, then he turned to Joshua. "Joshua, is it all right?"

Joshua studied Tarrant, too; then he nodded. "Yes, Davy, I think it is. I don't think he'll deliberately hurt you. I think he'll tell you things that will better, but it's better to have the truth, even if it does hurt."

Vila nodded obediently. "All right, I'll go with you, Tarrant. But don't think you're going to order me about all the time."

That sounded so much like the old Vila that Tarrant began, for the very first time, to have some hope. Vila had always been a survivor; he was good at blending into the scenery and making himself inconspicuous. Tarrant knew better than to think that was all that he had done here, but it was part of it. Maybe it wasn't going to be quite as bad as he had feared. The old Vila wasn't totally gone, just in hiding, and with luck and time, and a lot of hard work, Tarrant might find him and bring him back. But it wouldn't be easy. So he smiled a little and said, "Only if you need it, Vila."

A reluctant grin tugged at the corners of Vila's mouth. He repeated, "I'll go with you."

"Good." Tarrant knew better than to ask for any more of a commitment yet. For Vila to go with him was a major concession, and it was also a responsibility. Vila was far from normal; he might even be far from sane. If Tarrant took him on, he took on the responsibility of getting Vila well again, too; or at the very least, of not making him any worse. It was a responsibility that many a many a man would have preferred to avoid, including Tarrant; but he also wanted the old Vila back. It was the only chance he had of freeing Avon. So he said, "I'm glad, Vila. Shall I help you pack?"

"I'm not an invalid," Vila snapped at him. "I can do it myself." Then he grinned, with some of his old spirit. "You can carry my bags."

"Still bone lazy?" Tarrant asked.

"Lazy! I'll have you know..." And then the spirit drained away. "I can't ... walk very well any more."

Tarrant felt a tug of pity and ruthlessly suppressed it. Vila didn't need pity. "Well, you've found a new excuse to get out of work, haven't you?"

Mischief came back into Vila's eyes as he said, "Work!" in tone of abject horror.

Joshua smiled. That was a good sign. Davy was coming to be the man he'd been before. A soft and sympathetic answer would not have worked then, so he said, "Davy, I'll help you to pack. And when you come back here, I'll expect great things of you."

"Of course. Any remarkably talented person could do them." But it was hard for him to keep up the pose, and he went off with Joshua, looking small and bent. Tarrant frowned at the sight of his limp. Although it wasn't a bad one, it was still painful to watch Vila move with difficulty. He knew, too, on a purely practical note that Avon's rescue might require more dexterity than Vila was capable of right now.

Raf dropped into the chair that Vila had vacated. "Well, Del?"

"I don't know. Maybe there's a chance, but it's not a very good one, Raf."

"It's the only one Avon's got."

#

Kerr Avon did not care any more. He had gone through the trial, a sham trial if ever there had been one, without the slightest degree of interest. He knew that no matter what he did or said, they would have him killed, and since that seemed to him to be the most desirable of outcomes, he did not bother to play their game. He merely waited for them to do what he wanted them to do--kill him.

He knew that Blake was dead. They harped on it often enough. He knew that Blake had been set up by that woman, Arlen, and possibly other spies. He knew that Blake, while stupid enough to say all the wrong things to him, things guaranteed to force his hand, had not really sold him out after all--trust Tarrant to get everything wrong--and that he had not deserved to die at his hand. It had been his single minded pursuit of Blake that had killed the others. Avon knew that Dayna and Soolin were dead; he had seen pictures of their bodies at the trial. He had been told that Vila was dead, too, that he had died of his injuries. While there had been no pictures of Vila dead, there had been pictures of him lying injured in a Federation Interrogation Centre. If not dead, he might well be crippled. Of Tarrant, nothing at all had been said, which led Avon to suspect that Tarrant not only lived, but was free. He did not particularly care one way or another. If he had been forced to choose who would live out of the whole ludicrous mess, he might not have picked Tarrant, but it was done. He had had no say in the matter, and de did not care. What mattered to him was that in one week he would be dead, and it would be over. There would be no more betrayals, no more 'friends' who turned against him, no more hurt, no more bitterness, nothing at all. He welcomed the thought of oblivion. He did not believe that because of Blake's death he deserved to die. No, that had been a mistake. Its happening had been punishment enough. He simply saw no point in continuing with life. Odd that, in the end, the Federation that he had come to despise as much as Blake had ever done would give him the one thing that he wanted.

Then the cell door opened, and he looked up with slight curiosity. It was too soon for his execution, and no one ever came to see him any more. The endless interrogations had finished, there was no more torture. No more mind probes; nothing but food through a slot twice a day, and endless solitude. But the door was opening, and that penetrated the cold, hard wall that he had built around himself.

Commissioner Sleer came gliding into the cell, a smile curling her lips. "Why, Avon," she purred, "did you think I had forgotten you?"

He looked at her, and something roused in him, a trace of the old antagonism. "I did not care," he said. "You no longer matter, Servalan."

She frowned a little. "Oh, Avon, how can you say that? After all we have been to each other."

"You are only one more enemy, Servalan, and I have had enough of them."

"But I needn't be your enemy, Avon. Perhaps I can save you."

"Why should you want to?" he asked.

That startled her. "I watched your trial," she said. "And I wondered why you offered no words of defense. It did not seem like you. I thought perhaps you had been brainwashed, but you haven't been, have you, Avon?"

"No." He owed her nothing, least of all honesty, but he said, "It does not matter. They will kill me no matter what I do."

"Will they?" She sounded surprised, and he realised what she meant. She had expected him to bargain with her identity; that was why she had watched his trial, besides the amusement she should feel at his demise. She had watched it because she considered herself at risk.

He said flatly, "Whether you live or die is no longer of any interest to me, Servalan. You can go to hell and take the whole galaxy with you, and I will not care. But for me, I only want an end to it."

"For Blake?" she asked, relishing the sound of his name and Avon's instinctive reaction to it. "Poor martyred Blake. Dead Blake. Your friend Blake." Then she smiled with sudden, almost obscene amusement. "Blake, who had been working for me for over a year before you killed him."

"That's a lie." Avon's denial was instinctive, and he was shocked to realise he could still feel pain, could still feel anything at all. He could reconcile himself to the comedy of errors that had led to Blake's death, and he could have gone into the darkness with comparative peace knowing that once there was a man called Blake who had not betrayed him after all. That was the one thing he did not want to lose; those few minutes when he believed that Blake had sold him out had been among the worst of his life, almost as bad as learning that he had killed Blake--his friend. Servalan was lying, she had to be. He would believe nothing else.

"No, Avon, I'm not lying to you," she said. "I recruited Blake shortly after I lost the presidency. He was not working for the Federation, because I was not working for the Federation, either. I was working for me."

"Trying to regain your power," Avon said bitterly. "I believe that, Servalan. What I do not believe is that Blake would help you to take back power."

"Blake is an idealistic dreamer," she said with a smile, "and so very easy to manipulate. Perhaps he thought he could use me for his own ends. He wanted the same thing, in a way--an end to Federation power. He wanted a democratic government--at first--and I wanted the presidency back. It was easy to deceive him into working for me, and then I had him. Can you imagine what would have happened to his precious cause now if the truth had come out, that Blake was working with me? It would have destroyed the rebellion, destroyed it completely. So Blake and I made a deal. We would go our separate ways, and I would keep silent to save his precious cause if he would do one thing for me: bring me you."

"I don't believe you, Servalan. Even if it were true, you would not have kept silent."

"Of course not. But he believed it because he wanted to believe it. I think you believe the rest of it, too. Arlen told me what happened on Gauda Prime. It was not my plan that captured you. I failed to take the Federation into account, the fact that they had their own plan to capture Blake as well. It was my one miscalculation. They used Arlen as an infiltrator, and set up a capture--Blake's base and all his people. They didn't know about you; that was just their good luck. Their trap was sprung before mine could be, and they came away with you. I had to stay away then; it was too late for me to succeed, but the end result will be the same. In six days you will be dead. You will die with the knowledge that Blake sold you for the sake of his cause. He did betray you after all, and he meant to betray you to me. Still the idealist, was Blake. He does not realise that if he plays with mud, he will get dirty; no more knight in shining armour. Just a man who used me for expediency, and who sold his best friend for the same reason. 'I was waiting for you,' he said to you before you shot him. And 'I set all this up'. If what I say is a lie, it would have been stupid for him to say such things, Avon. Blake may be foolish, but he isn't stupid. No, Avon, Blake sold you. And I'll tell you something else--this ... traitor ... this despicable man who made you trust him against your better judgement--this man is still alive."

Avon laughed at her. "Don't be a fool, Servalan. I am neither foolish nor stupid. I know Blake is dead. I watched him die."

"You underestimate Federation surgeons, Avon. Blake now has several artificial internal organs, and his recovery has taken a long time; but he is alive, and he is well. Once your execution has take place, the Federation will arrange for his."

"Your ally? Executed?" He shook his head. "Servalan, you used to do so much better than this."

"Oh, did I? What a pity that I am slipping so. Blake was not my ally, never my ally. He was my tool, and the Federation doesn't know that, and never will. What they do know, is that, if they can rearrange Blake's mind again, make him confess again, what is left of the rebellion will come tumbling down. It would be the second time that Blake recanted, and people would tire of it. It will strain his credibility to the limits, and beyond. But they must remove you first, because you might be willing to make statements to discredit what they plan to do with Blake. Am I am making sense to you, Avon? Do you still doubt me?"

He realised that he could not entirely disbelieve her, and he realised something else as well: he no longer wanted to die. He expected nothing but betrayal from people, and people had continually betrayed him, even Blake, the one person he had always trusted against his better judgement. He knew that if he went peacefully into death, he would let the betrayers win, and he no longer wanted that. It was not that he wanted to live, but that he was no longer quite ready to die.

Servalan saw it, too, and knew that she had been right to come here. Avon knew too much. He would never talk about Blake; he knew Blake would die without his words of condemnation. But he might talk about her, might tell the galaxy that Commissioner Sleer was ex-President Servalan, and Servalan was not ready for that information to be revealed. She would shed the Sleer identity without a qualm, but she was not yet ready to assume the mantle of Servalan again. Avon could destroy her plans.

She could not kill him here and now, because it was known that she had visited him. If she were to kill him, they would be after her with a vengeance, and she would have no resources to escape them other than the natural deviousness of her nature. So, if she had to flee and re-emerge with a new identity, and begin her climb to power from a different direction, she would not leave Avon's body behind her. She would do better than that.

She would take him with her.

"Perhaps I don't doubt you, Servalan, but neither do I trust you. Why have you told me all this?"

"I started it to see what you meant to do about me," she said honestly. There were times when honesty could be useful, and Avon might even recognise it in her, although he had not seen it before.

"At this point," he said, "there is nothing left to do."

"Oh, Avon, you only say that because you know that I can kill you."

"True," he conceded.

"I think that you are no longer as ready for death as you were when I came in here," she pointed out. "Blake could still die at your hands, Avon. Do you want that?"

"No," he said, and discovered that it was true. He wanted nothing to do with Blake at all. Let the Federation kill him, let them discredit him first, along with his precious cause. He did not care. He cared for one thing now: survival. As long as the Federation did not kill him, he would triumph, and although it would be a bitter triumph, it was all that he could ever hope to have.

"Then perhaps you would like to be freed from here?" she asked.

"To save your neck? To get me out of here so that I cannot give you away?" He gave her a twisted smile. "Then, as soon as we were away from here, you would kill me. If you think that I would trust you, Servalan, you are a bigger fool than Blake is."

"Avon, do you imagine that I trust you, either? I am certain you would welcome my death, and will try to kill me. All I suggest is a truce until we are away from here. Once we are both free, we shall see who kills whom." The smile she gave him was seductive and sinister at the same time. "Well, Avon?"

"Well, Servalan? Or has this conversation been carefully monitored?"

"Of course not. I arranged for a fault in the communications system. I have no faith in your failure to call me by name. Presently the fault will be discovered. I have authority to take you around the prison grounds. Shall we go outside? A condemned man's last walk in the sunshine?"

"Servalan, stop underestimating me. You pretend you came in here for information, yet you have already arranged an escape."

"You fool, that was for me. I cannot guarantee how quickly the fault in the equipment will be rectified. Now I will use my escape route to get you away as well. Do you think I would walk into a meeting with my greatest adversary without a means to get free?"

That made sense to Avon, although he did not believe it for a minute. But staying here meant nothing but death, and, out there, death was only a probability, not a certainty.

"Where is Blake?"

"Nowhere that you could find him, Avon."

"Which could mean anywhere from the outer worlds to the very next cell."

She favoured him with a saccharine smile. "Avon, if you are coming with me, you will come now, and you will not stop to look for Blake. Once we are away from Earth, we can go our separate ways--if one of us does not kill the other first. I knew, as soon as I heard that the Federation had you, that Commissioner Sleer would have to die. Now I will be a victim of Kerr Avon's escape attempt. My body will never be found, of course, but I will manage to make it look as if you forced me to help you escape. If I should succeed in killing you, I shall reappear as Sleer; if not, then I shall assume a new identity. Have no fear that I have not already made every possible arrangement for that contingency. Now, if you are coming, come with me. Otherwise, I will have to kill you on the spot, and construct a messy story about how you tried to strangle me."

Avon glared at her. "I am at your service, Servalan."

"I thought you might be," she said, and led him from his cell.

#

"Del, you've got to hear this."

Two days away from Earth, Tarrant was just beginning to get through Vila's reserves. Vila remembered enough of Tarrant to recall times that Tarrant had bullied him and argued with him and mocked him, and it was hard to reconcile that Tarrant with this one, who was kind and understanding and gentle with him. He knew, of course, that Tarrant needed his help to break Avon out of prison, and he had not totally rejected the idea, but, as yet, he had remembered nothing that had occurred after Terminal. Up to the time of Tarrant's brother's death, most everything had come back, although some of it had come reluctantly. He still had nightmares; in the darkness between sleep and waking, he would hold onto Tarrant the way he had held onto Joshua, still frightened and unsure. Tarrant had little faith that Vila could possibly break into a high security base in only two short days; but he had to hope for that, for there was nothing else left to hope for.

But Raf's voice was excited, and both Vila and Tarrant looked at him in surprise. Raf had shown little cause for excitement lately. He had far less faith in Vila's recovery than Tarrant, but now he was smiling, excited, hopeful. That was so incongruous that Vila piped up, "What'd you do, Raf? Win a fortune?"

"I feel like I have," Raf admitted. "I've been monitoring Federation communications, and I've picked up the most incredible thing. You won't believe what the Federation has just announced."

"Tell us," Tarrant urged, sensing good news, but not quite willing to believe it.

"They've delayed Avon's execution," Raf all but shouted. "They've given no excuses or reasons, but it's delayed by a week. A whole week. That should give us time to do something about it."

Tarrant grinned broadly, then cast a glance at Vila. Vila was smiling a little, too, not quite as happily as the others, but without the wary and cautious resistance that he had shown whenever Avon's name had been mentioned up until now. Maybe he was remembering earlier times, more pleasant memories. Just yesterday, he had told Tarrant about how he and Avon had used Orac to win ten million credits in Freedom City, and he had enjoyed the story. Tarrant knew that Vila would need every good memory he could summon up before he faced whatever had happened between him and Avon on Egrorian's shuttle, or the final confrontation with Blake. Vila, like Avon, had known Blake before. Vila must have been shocked and horrified by the thought that Blake had betrayed him. Who knew what games the Federation had played with Vila's mind in the months they had had him, what lies they had told him. Tarrant longed for any of the others--Dayna, Soolin, Cally. He could have used their help in getting through to Vila.

But Vila was saying now, "Why would they want to delay Avon's execution? Maybe I don't know much, but that doesn't make much sense to me."

Tarrant frowned. "You know, you're right. No excuses, you said, Raf? I wonder what that means."

"What I'm afraid it means it that they're hoping there will be a rescue attempt. They could be waiting for us."

Vila went pale at the thought, but he said, "How could they know about us? Unless one of us is a traitor?" He began to shiver a little. "I wish I'd stayed with Joshua."

"Vila, they know that you and I are free," Tarrant reminded him. "They'd expect us to try to get Avon out if we could. And there could be any number of reasons for the delay. Maybe Avon tried to escape. Maybe Servalan has something to do with it. Maybe he got sick and they are delaying until he's well enough to be killed. Maybe some Federation official wants to be there, and can't get there in time for the original schedule. There could be any reason; it doesn't have to mean they are waiting for us."

"But it means they'll be on their guard," Vila wailed. He had been practicing on every lock on the Pegasus until he could do them in his sleep. "But I could do them back on Harrios," he had reminded Tarrant. "It doesn't mean anything." He added now, "Tarrant, I don't think I can do this."

"I think you can, Vila. I never thought I'd admit it, but you're the best. We can't get in there without you. If you can't do it, nobody can."

"Then nobody can," Vila said. "I can't. I'm not sure I even want to. I mean, what did Avon ever do for me? Did he ever save my life? Did he ever treat me decently? None of you did."

"Maybe not, Vila," Tarrant agreed, "but you were Avon's friend. Don't you think it'd be a little late to change your mind after he's dead?" He reached out and patted Vila on the shoulder. "If you really don't think you can manage it when we get there, I'll understand, and we'll work out something else. But if it's because there's a grudge between you and Avon, help me get him out first, and then settle it."

"I don't understand you, either, Tarrant. You never liked Avon. You never particularly wanted him around. I don't remember everything, but I do remember that."

"Maybe I owe him something," Tarrant said. He didn't want to talk to Vila about Gauda Prime yet. He didn't think Vila was ready for it; he didn't know if Vila was ever going to be strong enough to know about it, but Vila kept on surprising him. Vila had been gaining strength all the time he was with Joshua on Harrios. He'd had security there, and maybe it had been what he'd needed to help him heal. Tarrant didn't know, and he didn't have the time to find out.

But Vila game him a suddenly shrewd glance. "What did you do to him?" he asked. "It must have been bad if you're willing to risk your life to get him free."

"He was one of my shipmates," Tarrant replied. "That should matter."

"No, it's more than that. I don't like any of this... Tarrant, did we ever find Blake?"

Vila's face was expectant, and Tarrant answered, "Yes, we did."

"And then what happened?"

"That's when we were caught," Tarrant evaded.

"Blake, too?"

"Blake died there, Vila." Vila already knew Blake was dead, and Tarrant had not yet refused to answer a direct question. Vila had been very careful up until now about asking nothing he was not ready to handle, but Tarrant still wasn't sure.

"Oh," said Vila. "Did Avon... see him die?"

Tarrant nodded. "Yes."

Then Vila surprised Tarrant yet again. "All right," he said. "I don't remember what happened, but I'll help you get Avon free. And then I'll ask him for answers."

That might have been one of Vila's less inspired decisions, but Tarrant did not have the luxury of objecting to it. He said, "We'll still decide if you're ready, Vila. I won't let you do it if you're not ready."

"It's my decision," Vila announced, a grim determination on his face. Then he shivered again. "I don't want to go. I'm afraid."

"I know you are," Tarrant soothed. "And I don't blame you. I am, too."

#

"A hired assassin," the voices had said, so many times that he had come to believe it after all, in spite of the million and one reasons he had for not believing it. "A hired assassin, hired by the Federation. To kill you, and he almost succeeded."

"No." He kept saying no, had been saying no for almost a year, but it had grown half-hearted. He did not understand, if it were true, why they had to lock him away, why they had permitted him no contact with anyone at all, only the interrogators who came endlessly to his cell, who told him over and over that Avon had come to Gauda Prime for one reason alone, to kill him.

"You're wrong," he had insisted. "You're wrong, you weren't there. You didn't hear the anguish in his voice. He really believed I had betrayed him. He didn't come to kill me. He didn't want to kill me."

"He almost did."

"No."

The interrogator gestured in the vague direction of his abdomen. "There's more plastic in there than actual tissue and you are defending him? Surely that makes no sense."

"He didn't want to kill me."

"Of course he could not seem to want to kill you, Blake. He had to fool the others. They weren't in on his plot, and if he had walked calmly into the room and shot you, he would have lost his position with them. He did not know that we were moving when we did. If things had gone according to his plan, he could have escaped, gone away with the others, who would have taken him back into their ranks until the next time we had need of him."

"No," Blake said again. "I won't believe it. But deep inside, he did. He didn't want to believe, but when one is in hospital for six months, receiving the most extensive repairs possible, when one has almost died at the hands of one's closest friend, it is hard not to believe. He had trusted Avon, even though that was risky. Avon had never wanted to trust him in return. Avon had not even understood why he did, and Blake had been very cautious of their friendship, knowing that Avon had been wary of it, uncomprehending.

"He did it for money," the interrogator said. "Of course the fact that you didn't return to the Liberator after the war helped. What could he think but that you no longer cared about the Liberator and its crew, about him. He was surprisingly easy to persuade, Blake. Surprisingly easy. At first, we didn't believe him; we thought he was using us to try to find you again. But he did not let us down."

"And you repay him with death."

"What else can we do? He is a tool that has served its usefulness, and it would be awkward if he were to be found. The man is a convicted criminal and a saboteur, a known rebel. That we used him for our own purposes does not change that. He will die. The larger scheme of things must be considered. We hired him, we paid him, he tried to kill you. Now he will die. And then you will die."

"You went to a lot of trouble putting me back together if you meant to kill me," Blake returned, seeing a flaw in their logic.

"Did we? You still have your uses for the moment alive, Blake, uses that you could not have dead. You see, eventually we will persuade you to renounce your cause as you did back on Earth. No one will follow anything you represent after that. We'll even tell them how Avon shot you--and how you realised that rebellion is futile."

Blake heaved a weary sigh. "I don't believe you."

"Yes, you do, Blake. You just won't admit it. You're a stubborn man. But Avon was hired to kill you and he almost succeeded."

Month after month, the same thing. Avon had betrayed him. Finally, Blake, worn down, bitter, alone, believed it. Avon had killed old friends before. Why should Blake have dared to assume that this time would be different? Because he had wanted Avon's friendship more than he had wanted anyone's before. Wanting had nothing to do with reality. Avon had tried to kill him in cold blood.

And so Blake began to hate Avon.

#

"Avon?"

Avon raised his eyes from the control panels of Servalan's one-person ship. They were a day out of Earth, surprisingly unpursued. Servalan's rescue had not gone as smoothly as she would have hoped, but she had planned well all the same. An unexpected group of guards had almost stopped them, but Servalan had slipped Avon a gun--doctored not to work. It had looked convincing enough pointed at her head. They had gone unmolested. They had even eluded pursuit. Servalan's ship was fast and well equipped with detector shielding. She had indeed planned everything with her usual meticulous eye for detail. Avon's mouth curled in a twisted smile as he remembered. Now they were free, and, for the most part, they had not spoken to each other. He knew that Servalan would not kill him in space, for the simple reason that she needed him to pilot the ship.

As she spoke, he met her look impatiently. "What do you want, Servalan?"

"Avon, why did you try to kill Blake?"

He turned back to the instruments. Nothing that had happened on Gauda Prime had anything to do with her, and he had no desire to discuss it.

But she said, "Why, Avon, I do believe that you cared for Blake."

"Don't be a fool."

"But I'm not. I hadn't expected that. I thought that when you learned about Blake working with me that it would anger you. I did not expect it to hurt you."

He could feel her eyes upon him, but he did not turn. "Knowing you, Servalan, all this has some purpose. What?"

"Why, Avon, I am just discovering that you are capable of forming loyalties after all. I had not expected that of you."

"You know nothing of me," he said coldly.

"On the contrary, Avon. Who else understands you half as well as I?"

"Obviously you do not understand me, or you would not profess surprise at your erroneous interpretation of my behaviour."

"But it's not an erroneous interpretation. I do not accuse you of loyalty to Blake's cause, Avon. I know that you feel no more for that than you ever did. But if that is so, why have you worked so hard to try to coordinate rebel efforts, to cause the Federation to fail? You were becoming a considerable inconvenience, Avon."

"The Federation hinders me."

"Nonsense. If it were only that, you would go beyond Federation space and let this part of the galaxy do as it will. No, Avon, you do have loyalties. Or perhaps I should say that you had loyalties. To Blake."

Avon did not answer that because he suspected that she was partly correct. Even now, he did not completely understand why he had been acting as he had. After Servalan had told him on Terminal that Blake was dead, something had driven him, something he had not let himself face. He had his share of excuses, reasons, justifications, but the bare truth was something much simpler. Servalan did understand him, far better than he would have wished her to. It might not have been, as she termed it, personal loyalty, but there had been some manner of a debt to be paid. He had not found Blake, and Blake had died for it. But he had been wrong, for Blake had not died, and Blake had not deserved loyalty. It occurred to Avon that Terminal could have been Blake's first effort to trap him for Servalan. Maybe it had not been an illusion, a hallucination after all. Maybe Blake had really been there.

"Damn you, Servalan," he snarled at her.

She smiled a little. "Avon, I wish I had known of these loyalties a long time ago."

"Why?" he asked her scornfully. "Such loyalties, assuming they existed, would have done you no good."

"No. But had I known that you could commit yourself, I might have made more of an effort to recruit you." She smiled suddenly. "What things we might have accomplished together, you and I."

"There is nothing that we will ever accomplish together, Servalan," he said coldly.

"No?" She rose to her feet and came to stand behind him. A hand reached out and stroked his cheek; then she turned him to face her, still smiling. "Not even this, Avon?" she asked, as she leaned forward to kiss him.

And he discovered that it did not matter enough to him to reject her. His return kiss was hard and cruel, but she did not struggle against it. He thought she welcomed it.

There were still ten hours until planetfall.

#

Servalan's ship reached Phoenix Prime and Avon took his leave of her there. He considered killing her, knew she considered killing him--in spite of what had passed between them on the voyage, or even because of it. He knew that even if she had personal feelings for him, which he was not fool enough to delude himself into thinking that she did, she would have no choice but to kill him. But killing someone in cold blood no longer had any appeal for him, not even if it were Servalan. He hated her. Because in many ways she reminded him of himself, it was easier to hate her, but somehow harder to think of killing her. It was not that she had lain in his arms. If need be, he could still kill her, without hesitation, but not in cold blood. He had killed Blake that way... Perhaps he was a fool not to wrap his hands about her throat and squeeze the life from her as she slept, but he did not do it. Instead he turned and left the cabin, and then the ship. She did not awaken and follow him. He was cautious enough to check for that.

He waited until he was certain that he was unpursued; then he began to study the port area. The best thing to do would be to ship out as quickly as possible. He might, of course, be recognized, but his best chance for survival was to get right away from here. He had marketable skills and experience in space. He would sign on one of the ships as crew.

The first ship he tried had a full complement already, but when he professed skill at computers and space navigation, he was referred to a second ship. The captain, he was told, needed a navigator, and if Avon was half as good as he claimed to be, he could have the job for the asking. So he went along and found himself facing not a stranger, but an old acquaintance: Del Grant.

The two men stared at each other in blank surprise, then Grant said urgently, "Don't just stand there. Get on board and get out of sight. Anyone could recognise you."

Avon hesitated. At this point, a familiar face was welcome, but Del Grant was not likely to be happy to see him. "What about Anna?"

"We settled that on Albion, Avon."

It occurred to Avon that telling Grant the truth about his sister would do neither of them the slightest good. Grant would prefer the image of Anna that he remembered, and Avon did not need another enemy, not when it seemed that everyone in the galaxy was united against him. He could not risk this potential ally, not yet. So he said, "You used to hold that against me."

"I still do, but not the way I did once. Get on board. We have a lot to talk about, not the least of which being what you're doing here on Phoenix when you're supposed to be in a maximum security cell on Earth."

"Well, now," Avon said, "you could say that I escaped."

"You and your people are good at that," Grant said. "My information is that Vila got away, too, and Tarrant. I never met him, although I knew he was on Liberator after Blake left."

"Vila escaped? Are you certain?" Avon asked, as Grant sealed the ship.

"No. No one is certain what happened to Vila. The most likely thing is that he's dead, but the Federation doesn't have him any more. I heard he managed to escape. If so, he had to have found help, or he'd not have gotten far. I had a contact in Earth Security, and he said that Vila was injured--crippled."

Avon winced at the thought of that. "Perhaps he was less seriously injured than they thought," he suggested. "Vila was always good at deceiving people."

"Not that good. They said he had a spinal injury. But was a long time ago, Avon. If he survived, he might be recovered now. I haven't tried to find him, although I've thought of it."

"What are you doing these days?" Avon asked him. "Are you still a mercenary?"

"Yes, although business is bad lately. The Federation is taking more and more power. When your lot bought it, that didn't help. I think that maybe it's time we did something about that."

"So you still have rebel contacts?" Avon inquired.

"Some. None here, though. This planet is just a shuttle stop from Earth. You need to get away from here. This is one of the first places they'll look. How did you get away, Avon?"

"Servalan."

Grant stared at him in astonishment. "You're joking."

"No. She goes by the name of Sleer these days, and I'm one of the people who might identify her. She didn't want me to make any dramatic revelations before I died. I expected her to try to kill me, but she didn't."

"And you didn't try to kill her? I'm surprised. That would not have stopped you in the old days."

"Let us say that I have lost my taste for killing," Avon said wearily.

Grant gave him a thoughtful glance. "You look like hell, man. Let's get out of here, and set a course for some place safer, then you can get some sleep. After you sleep, you can tell me about it."

"You are assuming that I have something to tell, and that I would be willing to tell it if I did."

"Well, maybe. We'll never be friends, Avon, but I think we're allies. We both oppose the Federation. You may not claim any of Blake's noble motives, but I don't think you like the Federation any more than I do."

"No," Avon said wryly, "I don't like the Federation."

"Then come along and help me out of here."

"What happened to your last navigator?"

"That's another reason why I don't like the Federation. We had a run-in with them last planetfall." Grant shrugged his shoulders tiredly. "Come on, we can compare notes later."

Resisting the idea of comparing notes, Avon still went with Grant to the flight deck.

When Servalan came looking for Avon, there was no trace of him.

#

"So tell me about Blake," Grant said, some fifteen hours later. Avon had slept most of that time. When he emerged form Grant's spare cabin, he had borrowed some clothing that he had found there, a simple suit of black trousers and tunic, and a black turtleneck shirt. Somehow, it made him look younger, although Grant could not have said why.

At the question, Avon turned to face him, and Grant revised his opinion. Avon suddenly looked much older than he had. "Blake is dead," Avon said.

Although Federation reports had said much the same thing, Grant found that he did not quite believe Avon. "Is he?" he asked mildly, and waited.

Avon sat down across from him, and would not meet his eyes. "Perhaps, perhaps not," he said. "Blake has been working for Servalan."

"I don't believe that. And if she told you that, I'm surprised that you believe it, either."

"It made sense," Avon said.

"Tell me about it."

"Why should I?"

"Because I might be able to help you. It's foolish of you to reject a potential ally. We are on the same side, you and I."

"Are we? All right, then. I found Blake. I shot Blake. Blake may or may not be dead."

Grant stared at him. "You shot Blake? Oh, come on, Avon, I have a hard time believing that. Why, the man was your friend."

"He was not my friend if he was working for Servalan."

"I don't believe he was. Tell me how you shot him. Tell me everything you can remember. Let's make sense of this."

Avon surprised himself by telling Grant. He had kept silent about it for so long that it was not easy, and words came with great difficulty. Del Grant, the man who had once threatened to kill him, sat there and listened, and if there was no expression on his face, there was something like sympathy in his eyes.

After Avon had finished and fallen silent, Grant shook his head. "I never thought I'd feel any particular sympathy for you, Avon, but I think I do now. Don't you see that Servalan lied to you? She had to get you out of that prison to keep you from talking and destroying her game, and the only way to make you cooperate was to tell you lies about Blake. If you believed them, you might want to stay alive after all. In spite of what Servalan said, Blake would never work for her. He's not that stupid. He would never believe any such plan. Avon, Servalon is devious and clever; she would make certain her story for you was convincing."

"Then Blake is dead." Avon's voice was flat, and it gave nothing away.

"Maybe. Maybe not. We have no way of finding out, unless the Federation decides to exhibit him. And even then, we couldn't be certain."

Avon shook his head. "I don't know what to believe," he said wearily.

"And you can't decide right now. It's foolish to take anything Servalan said on trust. We'll find some of my contacts and see what information we can get. My security contact never mentioned Blake, but if Blake is alive, it's got to be one of the most closely guarded secrets going. Sleer might have found out about it. Her power has grown, although not quite as fast as some people have expected it to. I've never seen a picture of Sleer. Of course, she wouldn't want most people to see her picture. There are bound to be far more people who can identify her than she can possibly exterminate. She might be telling the truth about Blake being alive--but you can't count on it, Avon. You might have to accept the fact that Blake is dead, that..."

"That I killed him," Avon finished. "Very well. We shall find your contacts. And then we will look for Vila. And after that, if we find Tarrant as well, we will see about Blake."

"I think I know where to find Tarrant," Grant said. "He's working with Raf Marin these days. I wonder where I can find someone who knows where the Pegasus is."

"Raf Marin?"

"He knew Blake back on Earth a long time ago. Before Blake was captured the first time, Raf worked with him, and when Blake's people were gunned down, Raf was the only one who'd been unable to attend the meeting. The rebel movement collapsed then, but Raf was smuggled off Earth, and he's been working in the outer worlds ever since. He was on Faria last I heard. Maybe we should go there."

"It does not matter."

"If we're to find Vila, we need information, Avon. And I think Raf and Tarrant might be the best ones to help us."

Avon nodded. "Yes," he said at last. "We must find Vila."

Del Grant smiled a little at the urgency in his voice, but chose not to comment on it. "It will take two days to get to Faria. Let's set the course."

#

Vila woke from the nightmare screaming, and Tarrant came on the run in response to that scream. Vila was shaking violently, and he grabbed at Tarrant and held onto him, tears streaming down his face. He wasn't asleep, quite, he was partially awake, but the terror of the dream lingered.

"No," he kept pleading. "Avon, please don't kill me. There's got to be something else. We can find another way. Please, Avon, please don't kill me."

Behind Tarrant, Raf made an appalled sound in the doorway, and Tarrant said without looking at him, "Not now, Raf."

Raf went out again, and Tarrant turned back to Vila, gripping his arms and shaking him gently. "Vila, it's all right. You're safe. Avon's not going to kill you. Avon's not here. Remember, Vila. You're safe."

Vila looked up, and awareness came back into his face. "He was going to kill me," he said shakily, refusing to meet Tarrant's eyes.

"Malodaar?" Tarrant asked. He had long suspected that something had gone wrong there; Avon and Vila had seemed changed toward each other after that, and there had been no time to heal the breach.

Vila nodded wearily. "We couldn't reach orbit, remember? We threw out everything we could. Everything. And there was nothing left to throw out and Avon wanted something more. Only seventy kilos, Orac said. And then Avon said, 'What weighs seventy kilos?' and Orac said, "Vila weighs seventy-three kilos, Avon'." He shivered and clutched at Tarrant. "And then Avon got a gun and came looking for me. He called to me. His voice was ... strange. He sounded mad."

Tarrant was appalled. No wonder Vila had blocked this out; it would have frightened him as well. "What happened?" he asked softly. "Avon didn't kill you. You're still here. Where did you hide from him?"

Vila explained tiredly. He didn't look up, and he didn't have any expression in his voice. "He didn't find me," he concluded. "But he found out why we couldn't make orbit."

"I remember that," Tarrant said. "But he should have found you, Vila. I would have looked there straight away if I had been him. Didn't he look?"

"He came so close I could hear him breathing," Vila remembered, "but he didn't find me."

"Then he couldn't have killed you, Vila. Don't you see? You know Avon. He always puts himself first; he thinks that's the only way to be, to get by. But if he acted the way he always talks, all of us would have been dead a long time ago. It sounds terrifying, Vila. I would have been scared, too, although I might have fought back. But I don't think he could have killed you, not unless you made it easy for him by coming out."

"But time was running out."

"If time was running out and he meant to kill you, he wouldn't have gone away without looking in the one place left for you to hide. He couldn't have killed you, Vila."

"He killed Blake!" It was a wail of despair. "If he could kill Blake, he could kill me. He didn't, but that's because he found that whatsit that was weighing us down, so he didn't need to come back and shove me out the airlock."

"You know what I think?" Tarrant mused. "Maybe I've become a sentimental fool in my old age, but I think that if he hadn't found a solution, he would have kept on looking in all the wrong places until the shuttle burned up when the orbit decayed." He halfway believed it, too. It could have been. Knowing Avon, he wasn't sure; but, for Vila's sake, he hoped he was right.

Vila looked at Tarrant at last. "You are getting sentimental," he said, but he couldn't help wondering if it were true. The memory of the incident was vivid in his mind, and he remembered his disbelief when Avon had turned and walked away again. He had known he was going to die, but he had not died, and he hadn't even tried to understand it. Later, he could only blame Avon for the threat, the betrayal of his loyalty. Now, he wondered. Avon hadn't been... Avon had been different, even before it happened, strange and unlike himself. And that voice as Avon hunted him through the ship--it was as if Avon had gone mad. Could a madman be blamed for his actions?

"Don't you see," Tarrant said, "he couldn't do it. You were the only friend he had left, the only one who mattered to him any more. He couldn't kill you." He hoped it was true.

Vila stared at him a minute. "He did a good job of making it look like he could." He remembered what he'd said before. "He did kill Blake."

"Vila, in another minute, I'd have gone for a gun myself. Every time Blake opened his mouth, he condemned himself. What did you think Blake meant when he said, 'I set this up'?"

Vila shivered again. "I thought we were going to die."

"We almost did," Tarrant said sadly. "Dayna and Soolin... And now they are going to try to kill Avon. I don't know what Blake was getting at, or why he said what he did. There's no way to ask him now. It might have been easier on Avon, though, if it had been true. I saw his trial, Vila. The only time I saw any real reaction from him was when they condemned him to death. He smiled, Vila. He wanted to die."

"Then he's not going to be very happy with us when we break in there and get him out, is he?"

Tarrant looked at him in surprise. "Vila, do you think you can do it?"

"I don't know if I can or not, but I have to try, don't I?" He was silent a moment. "Tarrant, where's Orac?"

"I don't know," Tarrant admitted. "The Federation has Orac, but I've got the activator, so it won't do them much good."

Vila's eyes widened. "You've got the activator. How'd you manage that?"

"I was rescued by a guard who was a rebel sympathizer. He got the key for me. He couldn't get Orac, but he could hide the key in a pocket and walk out with it. He got it for me, and he might have gotten Orac, if we'd had enough time and luck. We could never get to Avon--security was too tight."

"Why couldn't you get to me?" asked Vila in a hurt voice.

"How much do you remember about being in there?"

Vila suddenly looked like Davy again. "All of it," he said in a small voice. "I remember everything, Tarrant. I wish I didn't, though."

Tarrant patted his shoulder reassuringly. "That's over," he said. "But you know that we couldn't get you out at first because you weren't well enough to be moved. I was laid up for about a month myself. With you, it just took longer."

"They didn't bother to try to fix me up," Vila said. "Not until the wound got infected. They didn't want me to die; they just wanted me helpless so I'd be willing to talk. Talk," he added shakily. "What did I have to talk about any more? I didn't know anything, and the rest of you were either prisoners or dead. I didn't have anything to tell them, Tarrant, but they kept asking. Who our allies were--what was I supposed to say to that? I didn't know. How a teleport worked. Avon might have been able to explain that, but I couldn't. There wasn't anything, but they kept asking questions. They used brain scans and mind probes and all sorts of things--not drugs because I couldn't handle them. Finally, when I was a little better, I knew I had to get out of there. I think they left me like that because they knew I could break out if I had to, and I couldn't break out if I couldn't walk. When I was able to get around, I didn't let them know it. I used to practice walking at night. Then one day, some prisoner tried to break out--nothing to do with us. But everybody was busy with that, and so I went out with the garbage and stowed away on a ship." He shivered. "I don't really remember much after that until Joshua found me--by then, I just couldn't take any more. I remember him asking me my name--and I didn't know what it was."

Sickened by Vila's story, Tarrant said gently, "The reason we didn't get you out right away is because you weren't well enough to walk out, and we didn't have the resources to help you. The guard would meet with me every few days and he'd say, 'It'll be another three weeks, two weeks'. When we were three days away from trying it, he was transferred off Earth. Tarrant met Vila's eyes levelly. "I didn't have the resources to do it after that, Vila. There wasn't anything else I could do, and before I could arrange something, you got away on your own. At first they announced that you were dead, but then we heard a rumour that you were alive, and so we started looking for you. I'm sorry it took so long."

"So am I," said Vila. "Tarrant, I don't want to go back in there." He straightened his shoulders. "But I will. Maybe we can find Orac, too. D'you think we can?"

"I'm beginning to think so," Tarrant replied. "I'm starting to think there isn't much you can't do if you put your mind to it."

Vila grinned at him, but he still looked small and scared and fragile; Tarrant suspected that he could collapse again at a moment's notice. Taking Vila in there was going to be more of a risk than he was entitled to take, and more than he should ask of Vila. Vila had his memory back, but he was far from well; he could fall apart. If he were captured again, even if he were later to be rescued, Tarrant suspected that it would destroy him.

#

"How're we going to get into the prison?" Vila asked Tarrant after their landing on Earth. "I don't mean the locks; I can handle those. But it's a restricted area, and we don't have teleport any more."

"No. We're going to go in the same way you came out--the garbage chute."

"Oh," said Vila. "But the scans...? I could shut them off from the inside, but how can we do it from the outside? You didn't get me enough tools to work that."

"I've got a jammer," said Raf. "Shuts down security systems without a trace. No alarms, nobody even knows the system is down. Useful little gadget. We climb through the tunnel, then reinstate the alarms behind us."

"And I've got guard uniforms," Tarrant added. "The guard who helped me stole them, and left them with me for your rescue. So I have one your size, Vila." He eyed Vila consideringly. The thief was much thinner than he had been; the uniform would be too big for him now, but not so much that it would be obvious. "You and I will go, and Raf will stay with the ship. We don't have a uniform his size." Raf was a big man. "Anyway, two will be less noticeable than three. Do you know where the controls for the cells are?"

"I think so," Vila replied. "I noticed them when I was getting out."

"Good. Then all we'll have to do is call up Avon's cell on the computer, and see about Orac, too. D'you remember enough about computers to find the right access?"

"Avon could do it better--at least he'd think he could," Vila answered. "But I think so. After all, it should be available."

#

The garbage tunnel was a steep drop that fed into a converter system. At the edge of the system was an access hatch, and it was through this hatch that Vila had escaped. A grid across the converter was opened periodically and the collected garbage sucked in for processing. "I used to know the schedule," Vila commented. "If we're in the tunnel when they open the grid, we could be pulled into the converter. Better to wait outside until we hear it shut down again."

The hatch was a narrow little door that Vila had open in not quite five minutes. That time worried Tarrant, who was not used to seeing Vila take as long as that to get something open.

Vila raised his eyes and saw Tarrant looking at him. "I have to match it to the frequency in the jammer," he explained. "That takes longer. What I'm doing could short the jammer if I'm not careful." He pulled out a tool and traced it over the lock slowly. A faint click was the result. "One more thing," Vila said. "The system comes on automatically, once there is enough garbage in the chute. If we go in there without checking it out, we might trigger the grid opening." He took a probe tool from the kit that Tarrant had produced for him, and, opening the hatch a fraction, inserted the edge of the probe. Then, swiftly, he jerked it back and slammed the hatch closed. Tarrant gave a groan of despair as he saw the lock reseal itself.

But there was a roar and a whine and the thudding of heavy machinery close at hand, and Vila shuddered. "That was too close. It's just started. It must have been balanced for it, and the probe triggered it. If I hadn't gotten it back in time, the hatch might have blown--and no jammer in the world is good enough not to react to that." He sighed. "If there'd been a few less pounds of garbage in there, we might have climbed in and been sucked into the converter." He began to take out his tools again. "I don't want to go in there," he said reproachfully. "Maybe we should go back to the ship now."

Tarrant ignored that remark, recognising its tone. "At least we'll know that we won't be sucked into the converter when you get it open this time," he reassured his companion.

"But what about coming back?"

"You took that chance before, Vila, when you broke out."

Vila nodded. "Yes, but... Winding up in the converter would have been better than staying in there any longer."

Tarrant discovered that he hated himself for forcing Vila back into this prison, but he had no choice.

Vila listened for the sound of the converter shutdown. As soon as it went off, he set to work on the lock again. Tarrant noticed that this time it took less time to do it.

"There, I've done it," Vila announced. "You go first." He opened the hatch, but with none of the mocking pride he might have used before.

Tarrant picked up Raf's jammer and led the way into the tunnel.

It was a long, sloping passage, almost too steep to walk in, and the hand-holds set in the walls for any necessary repairs were at wide angles, hard to reach. "How on earth did you climb down here before?" Tarrant asked in astonishment.

Vila gave him a shaky grin. "The best way to describe it is a controlled fall," he replied. "Well, go on, don't just stand there. Get moving. Want some garbage to come flying down and hit you on the head?"

Water ran down the walls, making the climb difficult, and Tarrant was forced to help Vila through several slippery parts. A sudden gush of water stained one sleeve before Tarrant could avoid it. "If anybody gets too close to us, they're going to smell where we've been."

"Then be more careful," Tarrant muttered. Vila was holding on to a hand-hold with both hands, as if he expected to slide back into the converter.

"Come on," Tarrant said, reaching out to help him. "How much further is it?"

"To the prison level? We're nearly there."

They continued to climb in silence until they reached another hatch. This one was sealed, too, but it took less time to open. "There's no alarm on it, just a lock," Vila said. He had Tarrant set the jammer anyway, not willing to take any chances.

The lock opened in a minute. Vila jerked Tarrant's hand away from the access lever. "Want to walk out into a troop of guards? Idiot. Let me do a scan."

Tarrant should have been confident; Vila seemed very sure of himself. Tarrant knew, however, from past experience, that Vila always seemed sure of himself when he was working. The hard part for Vila was afterwards, once he had nothing to do but wait and worry. Once he was inside this place, the memories of his incarceration and torture would all come back. Tarrant wanted to suggest that Vila wait in the tunnel, but he couldn't. There would still be the cell door to open.

Vila lowered the probe. "Right. There shouldn't be any people around at this time of night, anyway. Come on." He led the way from the tunnel, and Tarrant scrambled after him. He was too tall to climb through narrow hatches, he decided, as he bumped his head on the edge of the frame.

Vila looked up and down the corridors. He was white, and a little shaky, but he squared his shoulders. "The computer access is down that way, I think."

Tarrant took out the map that had been provided by the guard who had helped him, and he nodded. "Come on."

They met their first problem when they came to the corner. The computer access was in use. A single guard stood there, pressing buttons and periodically monitoring cells. From where they stood, Tarrant and Vila could see sleeping prisoners on the screen just past the guard's head.

"We'll have to take him out," Tarrant whispered, but Vila suddenly gripped his arm so hard that Tarrant winced.

"Tarrant," Vila whispered back in an unsteady voice. "Tarrant, I saw Blake."

"What? You couldn't have, Vila. Blake's dead."

"It was Blake. Maybe he wasn't killed outright. Tarrant, we've got to check. If Blake's here, we can bring him out, too. We've got to." Vila was excited. "Think of what that'd do for Avon. Then we could sit him down and find out why he talked all that nonsense at us at Gauda Prime. If he'd been one of them, and they captured him, they would have let him go afterwards. Come on, Tarrant. We need Blake."

"It might have just been someone who looked like him, Vila."

"No, it was Blake. I know it was Blake." He pointed at the guard. "What about him?"

"I'll take care of him." Tarrant knew he would have to kill the guard, or at least immobilise him, and he didn't want Vila to be a part of that. "You stay here and keep watch."

Vila tried to make himself look small and inconspicuous, feeling abandoned as Tarrant walked off toward the guard. He didn't watch Tarrant, either, although Tarrant might have needed a back-up. Instead, he let his hand rest on his gun and peered off down the corridor in the other direction.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he let out a yelp of pure terror, only to realise that it was Tarrant back again. "Don't do that," he admonished. "My heart just can't stand the strain."

The guard was nowhere in sight. Vila glanced around and didn't spot him, and didn't look any harder. Instead, he headed for the computer. Tarrant started pushing buttons. As each picture of a cell flashed onto a screen, the computer intoned the name of the prisoner and a cell number flashed onto the screen as well. Tarrant had been through two of the three rows of buttons when a familiar face appeared. "Blake, Roj," the computer announced, and the screen showed them a picture of a sleeping Blake. He looked much as he had at Gauda Prime. Vila said, "See, it is Blake. I told you so. We've got to get him out."

"We will," Tarrant agreed. He memorised the cell number, and went back to pushing buttons. But when he had hit them all, there was still not trace of Avon. "That can't be right," he said. "Avon doesn't seem to be here. Vila, are there any other prison levels?"

"No. You should know that. You've got that map of yours. This is the only place. Ask the computer if you don't believe me." He did it himself, typing the question onto the now blank screen.

The screen flashed, and then printed out the message: +Avon, Kerr. Not at this location.+

"They've killed him," Vila wailed.

"No," Tarrant said, "I don't think so. He went to the screen. +How long ago did the prisoner escape?+ he typed.

+76 hours.+

Vila's eyes widened. "He got away. I wonder how. Maybe they got tired of him and threw him out."

"I wonder why," Tarrant said, and turned back to the screen. +Report data on escape of prisoner Avon.+ he instructed.

+Prisoner escaped, using Commissioner Sleer as hostage.+

Vila and Tarrant exchanged wide-eyed stares. This could prove very interesting. So Servalan had come to visit Avon, and Avon had decided to escape after all. Tarrant had halfway believed that Avon had wanted to die. If that had been true, what could Servalan have done to change his mind? The fact that Blake was alive? If that were so, why hadn't Avon taken Blake with him? Unless he had no chance to do so...

"All right," Tarrant said. "We'd better find out what else we need before we get Blake out of here." He bent to the keys again. +Specify location of computer designated 'Orac'.+

+'Orac' located this base, this level, room 14A.+

"It can't be that easy," Tarrant muttered. "I'll get Orac. You go and start on Blake's cell."

"Orac will be locked up, too."

But it wasn't. They had to duck two guards on the way to get Orac, but they weren't noticed, and they reached room 14A undetected. Tarrant tried the door, and it swung open easily. Tarrant supposed that there would be no point to locking the door; without its key, Orac was useless. They discovered a laboratory, and, to Tarrant's amusement, there were several unfinished keys lying on the table beside Orac. He presumed the work was done here for the sake of security, and he was pleased to see that the Federation had not been able to duplicate Ensor's work. "Bring Orac, and let's go," he said.

"Carry him yourself, you great lummox."

Tarrant grinned and picked up Orac. "Come on."

#

Vila had Blake's cell open in less than a minute--he was starting to gain confidence in his work if nothing else--and then the two of them entered the cell. Blake awakened at the sound, and the first thing he saw was Vila standing before him, wearing a smile a mile wide. "Vila!" shouted Blake, and he leaped to his feet to envelop the thief in a bear hug.

Vila hugged him back with equal enthusiasm. "Come on, Blake, we've got to get out of here quick."

"We don't have much time," Tarrant put in. "Hello, Blake. D'you think you can trust us enough to break out of this place?"

"That much, surely," Blake agreed. "Orac, too?" he added. Then his face went icy and bitter. "And Avon?"

"Avon's not here, Blake. He escaped. We don't know where he is."

Blake's eyes narrowed and he didn't comment, but he came with them. He looked like he did not care if Avon were alive or not, and Tarrant wondered if Blake was still blaming Avon for shooting him, even now that he had had time to consider everything. Well, maybe. Blake looked haggard and a good five years older than he had the last Tarrant had seen him. Blake couldn't be past forty, Tarrant knew, but he looked older than that.

It was even harder climbing down into the chute than it had been climbing up. It was not really likely that the converter would be activated; at this hour of the night, there should have been little or no new garbage to be added, but the possibility still hung over them. The walls were slippery and Vila's weak leg made it difficult for him. Tarrant had Orac to contend with, so Blake helped Vila. At last, after Vila had slipped for the fifth time, Blake asked, "Vila, what happened to you?"

"Shot in the back," Vila explained. "Right after you were hit, Blake. The Federation doctors never bothered to do anything about it. I can get around, though. What about you? You look all right now."

"I am. They had to replace and transplant a little, but they got me back together." His voice was grim, and Vila knew better than to say anything more. Once they were safely away, he'd have to talk to Blake and see if they couldn't get things straight.

They reached the grid and the access. There was hardly anything piled up against the grid, but the weight of their bodies might be enough to trigger it. "Whatever you do, Blake, don't stand on that," Tarrant instructed, pointing, "unless you want to be broken down into your constituent atoms and used as energy to feed the prison."

Vila worked as fast as he could on the lock, and did a better job on it than he had coming in. They tumbled outside as quickly as possible, and Vila locked it up again. Then he sat down and put his head on his knees, and began to shake.

Tarrant sat down beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. "It's all right, Vila," he said softly. "You did it. We made it. Come on, we have to get back to the ship now."

Vila didn't react immediately, but then he looked up at Tarrant, and Blake was appalled at the fear and confusion on his face. "I... I'm all right," he mumbled. "It was..."

"I know, Vila. It's all right. Come on."

Vila picked himself up and turned to trudge wearily in the direction of the perimeter.

Blake stared after him in dismay, and Tarrant said in an undertone, "He's been through a lot, Blake. I think it halfway killed him to go back in there. Be easy on him, if you can."

"I will," Blake agreed. His face was grave as he followed Vila.

#

"Well?" Raf asked as Vila boarded the ship. "Any luck?"

"Avon's escaped," Tarrant replied, entering next, bearing Orac triumphantly. "But we didn't come away empty-handed."

"Orac?" Raf asked, delighted. "And Avon's free?"

"And we found somebody else," Vila said, a grin lightening his face.

Raf Marin stared at Blake in astonishment. "Roj? But you're dead."

"No," Blake replied, smiling a little. "I'm not. Raf, it's been a long time. What are you doing here?"

"Carrying on where you left off," said Raf. "But I'll turn everything back over to you, now that you're back from the dead. This is wonderful. When the word gets out that you're alive, they won't be able to stop us."

Blake's smile faded away, and he said, "No, Raf. I don't... I don't think I care any more."

Vila looked as if he had been slapped in the face. His eyes went sad and then almost blank. He looked like Davy again, shrinking into himself the way he'd done before he got his memory back. He said softly, "Blake, you have to care. You can't just stop."

"Yes, I can, Vila. What good did any of it ever do? Most of us are dead, and the Federation holds as much power as it always has. It was all for nothing. Look at you. You needn't have gone through any of this. You should have found yourself a bolthole a long time ago."

Vila lifted his eyes. They were too bright, as if he might cry. "Maybe we couldn't do quite as much as you wanted to, Blake," he said, "but nobody could have done more. You tried. Most people didn't even do that. I'm not a hero, Blake, and I never wanted to try to save the galaxy, but..." He hesitated. "But I was always glad we tried, Blake."

"But what good has it done?" Blake asked.

Raf said sharply, "Blake, you gave people a dream."

"A false promise," Blake corrected. "I think that Avon was right all along. I was a fool. It was all for nothing."

Vila made a sound of protest that was almost a sob, then he got up and walked out of the cabin, his limp more pronounced than it had been before. Tarrant wanted to go after him, but maybe he could do more good here.

"Raf, get us away from here before anybody finds out Blake is missing," he instructed.

When Raf went to the flight deck, Tarrant turned to Blake. "You keep disappointing me, Blake," he said. "That's all right for me, because I never expected that much of you in the first place, but you're not being fair to Vila. I only found Vila a week ago. He had amnesia--he didn't even know who he was. He'd been tortured for months for information about your precious cause, information he didn't even know to give them. He hurt his back when he was captured, and nobody ever bothered to treat the injury. By the time he managed to escape, the damage was done; he'll always limp now. He's more terrified of that prison than you can possibly imagine, but he went in there and he helped you get out, and what you did just now is a pretty poor way to thank him for it."

Blake looked stricken. "I didn't know that, and I'm sorry. But don't you see? It was my fault that happened to Vila in the first place. Jenna died, and I'm told Cally died, and your other two companions, Dayna and Soolin died, and I caused Gan's death. And for what? Nothing. Then Avon came to Gauda Prime to assassinate me."

"What makes you think that?" Tarrant asked, for the bitterness in Blake's voice was almost overwhelming. "Avon came to find you. He didn't come to kill you. That was mostly your fault, and maybe a little bit of mine. Right after it happened, we discovered that there was a Federation infiltrator on your base. It was her fault, and the Federation's fault--but it was your fault, too, Blake. Why would you tell Avon you set it up if you didn't want him to think you had baited a trap for him? He went to Gauda Prime expecting to be betrayed. We'd heard you were working as a bounty hunter. I realise now that it was a cover for you, but there wasn't time for Avon to come to that conclusion. Everything we'd been through had influenced Avon; he wasn't up to dealing with that kind of crisis."

"He'd been hired by the Federation to kill me."

"Had he? That's news to me. Don't be a fool, Blake. You can't believe that. Avon kill you? He'd as soon kill himself. I don't think he even considered escaping until he heard that you were still alive. I saw his trial. When they sentence him to death, he was glad. He'd hardly feel that way if he'd completed a successful contract."

Blake shook his head. "I never wanted to believe it, Tarrant, but..."

"But they conditioned you to believe it. Why, Blake? Part of their campaign to get you to renounce your cause a second time? They were going to program you. There'd be no other reason to keep you alive. They wanted you to get up and announce at your trial that you'd been misled, that the Federation was right after all. They wanted to bring down what was left of your cause, Blake. They had to start weakening your resistance. I don't know how much Avon meant to you, but I know that you mattered to him. I don't know how many times we risked our lives on the slightest possibility that you might be someplace--we'd rush off at a moment's notice to look for you. We never found you, but we watched Avon lose more and more of himself. I don't care what you believe about Avon, but when we find Avon--if we do--you're not going to accuse him of anything. You won't even be here unless you can think this through. Tell me one thing, though, Blake. Why did you make such a fool of yourself? Why did you do it all wrong?"

Blake shook his head, running hands through already tangled hair. "I don't even know any more, Tarrant. I heard it coming out wrong, and I couldn't stop it. Maybe I wanted to test him, too, to see if he would know what I mean, to see if he could still trust me. I'd lost Jenna. And then, here was Avon. Tarrant, there were times when I almost hated Avon for the way he can be, but I--blast it, I loved the man. I didn't dare risk... I don't know, Tarrant. It doesn't matter now anyway. There's nothing left to fight for. We're too old and too tired and most of us are dead. Just leave me alone. Put me down on a planet someplace and forget about me, and you'll be better off."

"What I'd like to do is punch you in the nose," Tarrant said frankly. "I'm tired of your damned self-pity. But I'll do what you ask, on one condition. Try to keep up a good front for Vila in the meantime. Don't hurt him any more than he's been hurt already. Avon tried to kill him, too, once, but Vila's going to wait and see. Vila doesn't know why Gauda Prime happened the way it did, but he'll give you both the benefit of the doubt. So just until we get back to Harrios, at least act as if you care about something. And then we'll work things out."

"Why not? It doesn't matter."

"Okay then, Blake. Forget I said anything. Maybe you can be cruel to Vila now; I find that I can't. If you are, I'm going to lock you in a cabin until we get there, so Vila won't have to see you."

Blake shook his head wearily. "I can't promise enthusiasm for the cause any more, but I don't want to hurt Vila. I'll do my best not to do any more damage. Will that do?"

"It will have to, I suppose."

Blake nodded. "Why Harrios?"

"Because there's someone there who will look after Vila, and who just might hide the rest of us at least until the furor dies. And now I'm going to go and see if Vila is all right. Or don't you care what you did to him, either?"

Blake dropped his eyes. "Yes, Tarrant. I do care about that. Let me go talk to him."

"No."

"Vila is the only one left," Blake said. "The only one left from Liberator. I don't care what happens to me, and I don't care what happens to the cause, but I do care what happens to Vila."

Tarrant relented. "All right, Blake. But if you do any harm, you'll have me to contend with."

Blake smiled wryly, and didn't comment. Getting to his feet, he turned and headed for the door.

"Blake?"

"Yes?"

"Vila's not the only one left. Avon's still alive. I don't care what you were made to believe back on Earth, but Avon never betrayed you. People always betrayed Avon, not the other way around. Or don't you remember that, either?"

Blake closed his eyes for a moment, then he turned and went out.

#

"Vila?"

Vila was sitting on his bed, his knees drawn up to his chin, his arms wrapped around them. He didn't look up when Blake came in, but after a few minutes of silence, he said, "What are you going to do now, Blake?"

"I don't know yet, Vila. I need time to think. I can hardly start up again with nothing to fight with and no followers."

Vila lifted his head. "I'd go with you, Blake," he muttered.

Blake felt an ache in his chest at that sign of loyalty, unexpected and unsolicited. "Would you, Vila?" he asked. "Federation bases and hairy aliens and people bullying you and making you do thing that you didn't want to do? When you could find yourself a nice bolthole someplace and settle down in peace?"

Vila said gravely, "I've thought about it, Blake. I'd never have any peace. I'd have to keep stealing things, and I'd get caught, or the Federation would come along and take the whole planet, or someone would find me. I don't like being in danger, but I always would be, unless the Federation finally was defeated, and somebody has to do that." He grinned a little. "Avon would hate it, being dragged back to fighting the Federation, having you tell him what to do, but I think he'd like it, too."

He looked so small and harmless sitting there that Blake could hardly believe that he was offering to return to that life of danger. But Vila was continuing. "I complained a lot, Blake. But in my whole life, that's when I was happiest, on Liberator, with the rest of you."

Tarrant had known, Blake realised. Tarrant had known that once Vila started talking to him, Blake would find reasons to want to continue his fight after all. They weren't quite the right reasons, not yet, but he knew as he stood there and struggled against tears that he couldn't let Vila down. He said, "I don't have anything, Vila. No ship, nothing. Not a base, not even a starting place."

"This ship isn't much," Vila said, "but you could start from here. Raf's a rebel, and Tarrant is, too. And they must know others." He was beginning to look excited, to come back to life. "Blake, let's try it."

Suddenly, Blake threw back his head and laughed. "Vila, I think I've just been conned."

"Conned?" Vila asked, all wide-eyed innocence, amusement lurking deep beneath it. "Would I do a thing like that to you, Blake?"

"Wouldn't you?" And Blake, still laughing, stretched out his hand to Vila, who gripped it.

For the first time in a year, Roj Blake felt that he was really alive.

#

"Nothing," Del Grant said as he returned to the ship. "They haven't been there for three months. Somebody suggested Harrios, but that was the only possibility."

"Then let us go to Harrios," Avon replied.

"It's not even a lead, Avon, just a suggestion. Nothing might come of it."

"Nothing is coming of sitting here," Avon said flatly. "I want to find Vila."

Grant studied him a moment, his face thoughtful. Then he said quietly, "Avon, you can't be certain that Vila is still alive."

"He is alive," Avon asserted. He made no attempt to be reasonable about it; Vila was alive because he said Vila was alive, and Grant did not try to challenge him. He had learned in the past few days that Avon had changed dramatically from the man he had once known, even from the man he had encountered on Albion. Grant was not sure if it were the shooting of Blake that had done it, or if it were the culmination of a number of things, but Avon was different. Avon was on the edge of a breakdown, and if they did not find Vila, Grant suspected that they might have to look for a psychiatrist to put Avon back together again.

And yet, Avon functioned perfectly well. He was cold and controlled, and he did what needed to be done on the ship. He could converse quite normally with Grant about ordinary things, but the subject of Blake was no longer discussed. Avon would not talk about Blake, but he pursued the thought of finding Vila with relentless singlemindedness. Grant realised that it was because Vila was all that he had left. If they did not find Vila, he suspected that not even a psychiatrist would be able to help Avon.

Grant nodded. "I think you may be right. If Vila were dead, not only would there have been an announcement, but the Federation would have displayed his body. They never did that. I think he got away."

Avon nodded, too. "Yes. Harrios? I'll set the coordinates."

#

Joshua stared at Vila with surprise and delight. "Davy, you look different now."

Vila smiled at him. Joshua had been kind to him, and Vila had little experience of kindness; he would never forget what Joshua had done for him. "I'm all right, I think," he said. "I almost wasn't. But I remember now. It all came back. Not that I'm all that glad about it; maybe I was better off here."

He didn't really mean it, Joshua realised. "And your friend Tarrant didn't do any harm?" he asked.

"No, Tarrant's improved. I'd hardly know him any more." Vila grinned at the thought of how Tarrant would react to that opinion. He added, "We'd like to bring someone here to hide until we can make plans and find some allies. Would you be willing to put him up?"

"Avon?" Joshua asked, excited.

"No, Avon got away before we arrived. Trust him to get it wrong." A note of reluctant fondness had crept into Vila's voice, and that seemed to surprise him. "We'll have to trace him somehow, and, knowing Avon, he'll make it as hard as possible. He always did. No, not Avon. It's Blake."

Joshua stared at Vila as if he'd quite lost his mind. "You're not serious. Blake died, Vila. You know that," he said softly.

"No, I didn't." Blake came strolling into the room behind Vila. He looked more like himself now. There was pride in his carriage again. He was finding it hard to believe that he had been drafted back to the cause, and while his enthusiasm, long suppressed, was beginning to stir again, he still had his moments of utter doubt. The look on Joshua's face caused another one of those moments. He said quickly, "Vila's told me all you've done for him. I'm grateful. It can't have been easy for you to hide him here."

"I hid him in plain sight, Blake, and no one ever guessed. I'll have to keep him better hidden now; anyone who remembers him from before would notice the difference immediately."

"I can still act the part," Vila announced. Hiding a grin, he stooped a little, making his face go dull and blank. He shuffled over to Blake and pretended to fall against him. A moment later, he was triumphantly displaying Blake's watch. He straightened up again. "That's the second time I've taken your watch, Blake," he said. "And I don't get to keep it this time, either."

Blake laughed and fastened it on again, but the sight of Vila in his Davy role disturbed him; it hurt him to think that Vila had really been like that. It would not abandon him; he had noticed the change in Vila. A spark of mischief had come back into his eyes, and he had begun to complain about everything again, enjoying himself, teasing Tarrant, and generally being as obnoxious as possible. Blake enjoyed it, too. It was good to see Vila getting well. Even though he knew that the cause might endanger Vila's life, he knew that it would not endanger his spirit. He could live with that.

Joshua provided them with a room. "Where are the others?" he asked.

"With the ship for now, monitoring Federation transmissions," Blake told him. "They'll join us here later."

"Fine. I'll prepare a dinner for all of you." He left them, and Blake gave Vila a smile. "You were lucky he was the one to find you, Vila."

"I know I was." He went over and tested the bed for softness. "I think I'll take a nap."

"No, we need to make plans."

"Plans to find Avon?"

Blake stiffened away from that, but Vila said, "Oh, come on, Blake, you can't still believe all that garbage the Federation fed you about Avon being hired to kill you. Avon didn't want to kill you. I went through it, too, remember? He didn't want to kill me, and then his immediate survival was at stake. I've told you about it."

"It's not the same thing, Vila."

"No, but don't think that Avon didn't matter to me as much as he did to you. I got hurt, too, Blake. But Avon was already hurt. Cally..." He heaved a sigh. "It wasn't just Cally. Other things happened to him, too, after you left. I think your leaving hurt him, and then he... Well, he ran into someone from his past, someone who had really mattered to him, and he learned that he'd been used, set up. Avon'd kill me if he..." Vila broke off and, oddly enough, he laughed. "Avon'd kill me," he echoed. "I didn't think I could say that and not think of Malodaar, but I just did. Blake, just give him a chance to explain. That's all."

"Vila, do you think that I want to believe that Avon would kill me? I fought it, and I kept on fighting it--but he did shoot me, and I can't help it, but I keep wishing that..."

"That he hadn't done it? That he'd still been the Avon you remembered and that he would have been his old sarcastic self, but still glad to see you? Avon couldn't have been that, Blake. He was too far gone already. Maybe even if we do find him, it will be too late." He shivered a little. "Maybe Servalan has killed him."

"No," said Blake involuntarily.

"So you do care?"

"I just don't know, Vila. I don't know what I feel. I'm afraid that I'd see him and take out a gun and try to kill him."

"No," Vila said. "I wouldn't let you."

Blake started to answer when Joshua returned. "Davy--I mean, Vila. There is someone here in the bar asking questions about you. I told him you weren't here any more, but he keeps asking where you've gone, and he doesn't look like Federation."

Vila and Blake exchanged suspicious glances. "What does he look like?" Blake asked.

"Fair-haired. Middle-aged."

Vila's eyebrows lifted. It didn't sound like anybody he might have expected. "I'll come down the back way and have a look on the screen. Blake, you'd better come, too."

Blake nodded. It did not sound like Avon. Even if Avon had dyed his hair as a disguise, Joshua would have recognised him, and he had not known this man. "Yes, I'll come," he said. "I don't think we could have been traced here so quickly. Someone we haven't thought of may have been looking for you."

Vila looked nervous. "But who would it be if it wasn't the Federation?"

"Avon might have found himself an ally," Blake suggested.

"Avon? I doubt it. Anyway, Avon's good, but I don't think he could have traced us here this fast."

"No."

They went down the stairs and Joshua led the way to a monitor screen. "I need to know at any given moment if any Federation operatives are out there. So far we've been free of that, but I can't take chances. Have a look."

"Where is he?" Vila asked.

"Corner table. Do you know him, Davy?"

Vila stared, frowning. The man looked familiar, but he could not quite place him. He knew it was someone he had met before, but it took Blake's surprised exclamation to recall the man to his mind.

"Del Grant!" Blake cried in astonishment. "What would he be doing here?"

"I don't know," Vila said. "I don't know why he'd be looking for me."

"He's not Federation, is he?" Joshua asked.

"He's a mercenary, and a damned good one," Blake replied. "I don't think he has any great love of the Federation, but I'm not entirely certain that I'd trust him out there in a public place. Can you bring him in here? I'll talk to him."

Joshua nodded. "I'll go and tell him. I'll have him come around to the back door. He'll be here in a few minutes."

Blake and Vila watched Joshua approach Grant and speak to him. Grant's face didn't change; he was too used to working in secret for that. He nodded and rose to his feet, and left the bar.

Blake was still unarmed, but Vila had crossed the room and pulled open a cabinet, removing a gun. He was just ready to pass it over to Blake and get a second one for himself when the door to the alley opened.

Kerr Avon walked in.

For a moment there was utter silence. Avon had not seen Blake, who was standing off to one side, but he did see Vila. His face, which had been wary and set in hard lines when he entered, eased astonishingly, and something that was almost a smile flitted across his lips. He holstered his gun.

"Avon!" Vila cried in surprise. Until that moment, he had not known how he would react to the sight of Avon, but now that Avon was here, Vila didn't even hesitate. After all this time, there was only one thing to do; Vila lunged at Avon and hugged him.

Avon returned the hug briefly, then detached as if he were surprised at his actions; but when he stepped back, he was smiling. "Vila, it's good to..." he began, warmth creeping into his voice, then he stopped dead. He had seen Blake.

Blake was staring in return, hostility evident in his face, in the very rigidity of his body. He said coldly, "You."

Avon said, "Blake. How has Servalan been treating you lately>?"

"Servalan?" Blake echoed. "I wouldn't know. But you should. Is the Federation paying well these days?"

Now it was Avon's turn to look puzzled. "I wouldn't know that," he said. "Are you thinking of going back to work for them?"

"Back to work for them?" Vila interjected. "Blake never worked for them, Avon."

"Didn't he?"

"Didn't you?" Blake asked him. "Or don't you consider the role of hired assassin working for the Federation?"

Avon froze at that and went a little pale. "Blake, I..."

"You don't deny it," Blake said. "How did they get to you, Avon? Did they offer safety, money, what?"

"They?"

"Stop it, both of you," Vila all but shouted.

To his astonishment, they did. They both turned to look at him. Avon's eyes softened slightly, but then he turned back to Blake, and they were hard again. "Don't change the subject, Blake," he said. "I know you worked with Servalan, and that you turned me in, in return for her silence."

"No," said Vila. If Tarrant had been there, he would have been surprised at the change in the man he had found such a short time ago. Vila was suddenly confident. "Blake, when you were a prisoner, the Federation told that Avon had been bought, to kill you. When did you start believing Federation propaganda?"

"I..."

"And what about you, Avon?" Vila continued. "Who told you Blake worked for Servalan? Servalan herself? A Federation interrogator? The last I heard, you didn't take their words at face value, either. What's the matter with both of you? I may be a Delta grade ignorant, but even I know better than that. That's not the problem. It isn't true."

Blake and Avon exchanged a wary glance, then looked away, frustrated, uncomfortable, helpless.

Finally, Avon asked, "Blake, were you on Terminal?"

Blake looked surprised. "No," he answered. "I've never been to a place called Terminal. Why?"

"I am not quite certain that I believe you. Servalan lured us there. You were there--or an electronic image of you, constructed as a dream."

"An image, then," Blake said. "Why? What did I do there? Something to make you willing to listen to their propaganda, something to make you want to kill me?"

"No," replied Avon violently. "Although had I known you were working for Servalan, I should have killed you without hesitation."

"I was never working for Servalan. Avon, you know me better than that."

"I never knew you at all."

Vila made a muffled sound of protest, filled with pain. "Stop it," he insisted drearily. "Stop it. It isn't true, none of it is true. Why do you believe the Federation? They never tell the truth. Even I know that. Why do you believe them and not each other?" Then he thought he knew. "Because you already know what the Federation is capable of; what they do doesn't hurt. But you're afraid. You're afraid you've been betrayed, by each other. Can't you see? Blake, would Avon be hurt at the thought of you working for Servalan if he was really a Federation assassin? Avon, would Blake have been so upset not by what you did but by the fact that you did it if he really had switched sides?"

Avon looked at Vila. Vila talking something like sense was a new experience. For once, he would have liked to believe him, but it was not quite good enough, and both of them knew it.

Vila persisted. "Gauda Prime. Talk about that. Blake, you didn't handle it right. You did sound like you'd set Avon up. Avon, you did shoot Blake. A hired assassin would have done that. But that's not why you did. The Federation is smart enough to take advantage of it. They have to keep you apart. They're afraid that you just might beat them together."

"Vila," Avon said at last, "much as I hate to admit it, you make a kind of sense, but..." The Federation had lied. Avon and Blake might come to believe that, might know it as a certainty someday. Blake had never worked for Servalan or with her, and Avon had never sold his services to the Federation. But Blake had driven Avon to shoot him, and Avon had almost killed him. That was the real problem, and Vila didn't feel qualified to deal with that.

Blake said, "Avon, I didn't want to believe it. I fought it. They thought me every kind of fool for that--just as you always have. But I can't forget what happened."

"I ... can't forget it, either." Avon's face was held in such rigid control that Vila was afraid something would shatter it, that Avon might even break down and cry. But Avon's eyes were dry and his voice was hard. "Blake, the one thing I could have gone to my grave contented with was the knowledge that you had not sold me out after all. Servalan's story made sense. I believed it, although I know her too well to believe a word she ever said. But you..." He stopped, conscious of having admitted more than he had meant to, and unsure of where to go next.

"Why did you do it, Avon?" Blake asked, his voice quiet. "Why did you shoot me?"

"You said you set me up." Avon's voice was anguished, his response completely involuntary. He forced his lips shut to prevent any further words escaping.

"He thought you had betrayed him, Blake," said Vila in the background. "Everybody else he loved has betrayed him."

Avon didn't look at Vila. He wanted to object to Vila's choice of words, but to protest them would be to give them credence, and he could not do that. Not now.

"No, Avon," Blake said quickly. "I set up the meeting. A chance to get us working together again. It came out wrong."

"Blake, I have seen you in action. Your words don't come out wrong. You twist people around your little finger, you always know the right things to say. It didn't come out wrong."

"Maybe not," Blake admitted. "Avon, I was afraid, too. You weren't the only one who'd been hurt, who'd had things go wrong."

Avon flashed an accusing look at Vila, who said nervously, "I didn't tell him anything, Avon, only generally, really."

Avon turned back to Blake. "You were testing me," he said. It was almost a question. He was remembering another confrontation, Blake speaking: 'Avon, I have always trusted you, from the very beginning.'

"You now longer trusted me," he sneered. "If, indeed, you ever did. Learning sense, Blake? It is long past due."

"Avon, I trusted you," Blake said, as if he knew exactly what Avon had been thinking. "But it had been two years. A lot can happen in that time. I'd kept track of you as well as I could, but I couldn't account for your every moment. People can be captured, programmed. I tested Tarrant, and he didn't understand--there was no way he could have understood. I never meant it that way. I didn't trust anyone. But I wanted to trust you."

Vila was afraid that would not be good enough, and indeed, Avon's face did not change. He still looked at Blake with as much warmth as he might have shown Servalan. Then Blake said, "Avon, you're saying you shot me because I let you down: I betrayed you. I didn't trust you enough." To Vila's astonishment, Blake began to smile.

Avon saw the smile and a question flickered in his eyes. He took a step backward, warily, away from Blake. Vila made a hasty and awkward movement in his direction, and Avon's eyes turned toward him then back to Blake. He waited and said nothing at all.

Blake said, "Avon, I do trust you."

Avon was surprised and disconcerted by that blunt statement, and it showed. He asked simply, "Why?"

"Because you didn't let me down."

"I shot you." Pain ran through Avon's voice.

"Yes. But because you had expected more of me than you would ever admit. Because you had trusted me, in spite of everything, and you thought I'd betrayed that trust. Don't you see, Avon? I always expected more of you than you were willing to give. You held me off, you tried to keep me at arm's length. But in the end, you proved that my expectations weren't so far off as people might have thought. If I hadn't reached you, you wouldn't have shot me, at least not like that."

"If that is an example of your logic, Blake, then I will settle for Vila's." But there was a slight easing of Avon's muscles. He was still wary, but he did understand what Blake was trying to say, although he was not comfortable with it. "But I do not believe that you will nobly forgive me for doing it."

"Nobly forgive you?" Blake echoed. "I ought to knock some sense into you instead." At last, his smile broadened. "Avon, when are you going to stop being so blasted stubborn and admit that, for once, I might be right. You said yourself just now that the thought that I had not betrayed you would 'content' you."

"You never give up, do you, Blake."

"With you, Avon, no, I never will. I have too much at stake."

Avon shook his head, but in exasperation, rather than denial.

Blake stretched out his hand to him. "Avon, can't we make peace with each other?"

Avon looked at Blake's hand for so long that Vila had to release his held breath and draw in another one. He discovered that he had crossed his fingers for luck. Finally, driven to it, he said, "Oh, come on, Avon. It's what you want to do anyway."

Avon glared at him, then he turned back to Blake. He looked at Blake and then at his outstretched hand, then slowly, he reached out and clasped it.

At that moment, in a clatter of noise and waving a gun in his hand, Tarrant came bursting into the room.

Blake and Avon spun around to face this new threat, their movements in synchronisation as if they had been choreographed. Vila grinned a little. "Relax, Tarrant," he said. "War hasn't been declared after all. I don't think they're going to kill each other."

"Avon!" cried Tarrant enthusiastically. "I should have known you'd find us before we could find you."

The alley door opened then, and Del Grant came in, his own gun at the ready. Hearing the noise, he had decided to investigate. He saw Blake straightaway, and his reflexes were good enough to prevent him from firing. He holstered his gun and stared. "So you're alive after all, Blake," he said. Turning to Vila, he continued, "I'm glad you're here. Avon was prepared to tear the galaxy apart to find you."

Vila looked at Avon in delight, grinning. Avon gave him a hard and slightly embarrassed glare. "Some people aren't fit to be out without keepers."

Vila met his eyes squarely. "Yes, and I'm looking at one of them." The thought that Avon had cared enough to come looking for him pleased him immensely, and he discovered that it had removed the spectre of Malodaar as if it had never been.

Tarrant was still grinning at Avon, who seemed disconcerted by the pilot's enthusiasm. "Avon, now that everybody's back, don't you think it's time we started making plans?"

"Perhaps," Avon agreed. "But if you think that you are going to be in charge, you are quite mistaken."

Vila began to grin again. "Well, I think it's all worked out very tidily."

"In what way?" Avon asked him, suspicion dripping from his voice. He knew Vila too well to trust that tone.

"Well, how can we help but succeed?" Vila said. "After all, there are seven of us again. All of us, and Raf and Orac."

"Orac?" Avon echoed on a note of interested speculation, and at that moment, Blake realised that it just might work after all.

#

It was very late. Vila was half asleep, propped in a chair on the flight deck of Del Grant's ship, while, across the room, Blake and Avon talked quietly and peacefully. If Vila strained, he could hear them, and he did for a while. "...no sense at all," Avon was saying. "None of you have. Tarrant running around the galaxy in a cavalier fashion looking for Vila. Your old friend Raf without the common sense to understand what the word security means. Grant doesn't have the sense he was born with, either. The man is a fool to trust me. Someday, I'm going to have to tell him a story that he will not want to hear. Then there is Servalan. She will be after us worse than ever before. And neither of us have any sense at all. You, believing Federation propaganda. Me, believing Servalan."

"What about Vila?" Blake asked, amusement in his voice.

"Vila had no sense to begin with," Avon said fondly.

"I like that," Vila roused himself enough to object. He got to his feet and limped over to join them.

Avon watched him approach, concern in his eyes. "Vila, are you all right?"

Vila stopped in front of him. "Me? All right? No, I'm not all right at all."

The alarm in both men's faces was very gratifying. "Explain," Avon demanded warily as if he expected Vila to tell him that he had no more than ten minutes to live.

Vila grinned suddenly. "I'm not all right at all," he repeated. "I have even less sense than you do. Here I am--I could find a nice peaceful planet and settle down to a respectable life of crime. And what am I doing instead? Signing on to go out and try to put the galaxy to rights again. People are going to shoot at me and try to lock me up. I need to have my head examined. I've gone mad. I must have done."

Avon digested his words for perhaps two seconds, and realized that Vila was teasing him. A reluctant grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. He caught Blake's eyes, and saw matching humor there. Suddenly the pair of them were laughing.

Vila stared at them, shaking his head sententiously. "No sense, either of them," he remarked to himself. "I'll leave them to it and go bother Orac." Then, laughing too, he turned and left the flight deck.

the end


End file.
